


Interview With The Hero

by scoradh



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-16 00:35:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 71,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1325146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scoradh/pseuds/scoradh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the age of twenty-five, Draco is confronted with the past he'd rather not remember and the questions that still need answering. Still, a little Slytherin guile goes a long way. The only problem is that he might discover more than he bargained on about the people he thought he knew.</p><p>Written in August 2006.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: terkey (livejournal)  
> TW for domestic abuse and prostitution.

In the shelter of a colossal oak dresser, Draco Malfoy took the opportunity to perform one of his regular surreptitious Cooling Charms. He pointed the tip of his wand to the muggy cloth sticking to his armpit with a practised gesture, and nearly drove it through his shoulder at the sound of a voice.  
  
“How much for this bowl?”  
  
“Fifty pounds,” called Draco. He stowed his wand in the special pocket sewn into his sleeve and smoothed down the bump.   
  
“I’ll give you thirty.”  
  
“Fifty,” insisted Draco. He wafted air around his perspiring face, then thought to blot the sweat with his cuff.  
  
“Thirty-five, and that’s my last offer.”   
  
“It’s fifty or nothing,” said Draco, emerging from behind the dresser and leaning sideways against it.   
  
The man who was fingering an ornate pewter bowl didn’t look around. His numerous jewelled rings caught the fire of the setting sun, which blazed in through the dusty front windows. The points of light created tiny coronas of blindness and left Draco blinking back white spots.  
  
“How about if I offered you dinner for two at Kali’s?”  
  
“Then it’d definitely be fifty, plus a ten pound surcharge for unwarranted presumption.” Draco tried not to let the laughter brimming on lips betray his customary expression of the ferocious, cut-throat bargainer.   
  
“Ah, you slay me,” sighed the man. He set down the bowl with exaggerated care. “Tell me what this piece of crap does to deserve such an inflated price, and maybe I’ll take it off your delicate hands.”  
  
“That was found in the temple of a king, I’ll have you know,” protested Draco. He moved to stand at the shoulder of the man, relishing the fact that he started at Draco’s nearness. “Just look at that wonderful workmanship, the intricacy of the detail on the rim designs. Even the slight wave of the cupola shows its uniqueness -- and there’s a rare seal of the craftsman on the base.”  
  
The man turned the bowl over. “Ah! I see it.”  
  
“You do?” Draco was flummoxed. “I mean, of _course_ you do. I am still studying it to see if it is an eagle or a sphinx, for the latter will greatly increase its value. I tell you, it will be a wrench to let you have it. I am not sure that I could let it go.”  
  
“I think you’re mistaken about the sphinx,” said the man. “I think what it says is ‘made in China.’”  
  
“Bastard!” Draco slapped him on the shoulder.  
  
“Tell you what.” The man withdrew a purse from his pocket with a rasp of silk. “I’ll buy if from you anyway. My wife needs a new fruit bowl. I’ll give you twenty-five pounds.”  
  
“Thirty and it’s yours.”  
  
“Done.” The man slid two fingers into the neck of his purse and, with exaggerated care, counted out the money into Draco’s damp palm.   
  
Usually Draco would perform a Drying Charm to ensure that his handshake was both firm and dry, for it was a rare quality in this climate. However, Achilles was not a usual customer, in any sense of the words.  
  
“Shall I wrap it for you?” asked Draco. He ran one finger along the rim of the bowl and pretended not to feel the decades’-worth of imbedded dirt that he picked up along the way.   
  
“No, no, don’t bother. I’ll collect it later in the week.” Achilles stroked his short, pointed beard. One of the amethysts on his middle ring reached to his knuckle; he was in grave danger of taking out his own eye with it. Although he was French, Achilles was often mistaken for someone of Egyptian blood, for his grandparents had been refugees from Algeria. Such assimilation with the natives was both a boon and a curse: Draco was given some leeway for being a stupid European. Achilles received none.  
  
As Draco rang up the sale on his rusty cash register, Achilles hoisted himself on to one of the numerous antique chairs. His ample bulk raised a cloud of dust, which glittered in the fading sunshine like a grimy halo. He exclaimed in disgust. Draco smirked at him.  
  
“I’ve warned you plenty of times that the furniture is in mint condition,” he said. “Which means ‘in exactly the same condition as I found it.’”  
  
“And where do you find it? No, don’t tell me -- car boot sales in the middle of the desert?” Achilles winced, inspecting his trousers.  
  
“No, that’s where _you_ find it, remember?” Draco set about writing him a receipt. Most of his competitors had receipt machines, except for Al Jareem, who was senile and thought he was a parrot. However, the Muggle technology of automated tills was too much for Draco. Mastering the art of giving correct change -- or any change at all -- was quite enough for him.  
  
He didn’t notice that Achilles had stood up, although it was to be expected. The man was fastidious to the point of obsession and the chair hadn’t been cleaned since its previous owner had died in it. But Draco did pay attention when Achilles’ rejoinder came in a warm tickle on the skin beneath his ear.  
  
“Ha, ha, ha,” whispered Achilles. “So, does that receipt include a discount for trying to fob me off?”  
  
“You’re a far better dealer than I am,” objected Draco. He squirmed away to the filing cabinet where he stored receipt copies. “You know that bowl is barely worth the tin it’s beaten out of.”  
  
“That’s not what I mean and you know it.” Achilles leaned back in a casual pose that completely blocked Draco’s way past the cash desk. “You play these games. You like to pretend that every time is the last time, and then that it never happened at all.”  
  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” declared Draco, his fingers curling around the edge of the desk as Achilles advanced.   
  
“Insufferable,” Achilles ground out, inches from Draco’s nose.   
  
Under his mouth, Draco smiled.  
  
For a second, he opened his lips and Achilles pounced, but Draco twisted away. “I have customers,” he reminded Achilles, who looked red and wounded, “and you have a wife.”  
  
“It’s not as if I wanted her.” Achilles’ voice was plaintive as he trailed after Draco. “I’d trade her in for some African mahogany quick as look at you, I swear it.”  
  
Draco snorted. “I’m sure she’d appreciate that. After all, I have some African mahogany in stock.”  
  
Achilles’ hand slid around his waist. “I know you do,” he murmured.  
  
Draco stepped smoothly away. “So, dinner for two at Kali’s, wasn’t it? How lovely. You’re paying?”  
  
“I always do. You always ask. You’re a little odd, Felix, you know that?”  
  
“I’m insulted. Only a little?”  
  
“I’ll wait for you.” Achilles' fingers inched along the top of a cabinet, the drawers of which Draco was rifling through in search of small, hidden treasures.   
  
“No, you won’t,” said Draco. “You’ll go home now and have a drink with your lovely wife. You’ll tell her about the beautiful antique bowl you bought her as a surprise present. You’ll be vague about where you bought it from, because you don’t want her to realise how much time you spend hanging about here. Then, when she’s softened up, you’ll kiss her tenderly on the cheek -- shoving your tongue down her mouth would be far too crude, so you save that for your mistresses -- and tell her that, regretfully, you have a dinner arranged with an old man who’s sitting on a fortune in old bronzes but doesn’t want to sell. A very difficult old gentleman, who’ll prove to be a useful alibi in weeks to come.”  
  
“God, but you’re a cold bastard.” Admiration dripped from Achilles’ voice like warm treacle. Draco had never liked treacle.  
  
“So I’ve been told,” replied Draco, his voice curt.  
  
“You’re better at adultery than the adulterer,” murmured Achilles. His lips pressed a farewell to the nape of Draco’s neck before Draco had a chance to prevent him. “You should give lessons.”  
  
Draco put his palm in the centre of Achilles’ chest and pushed him back, none too gently. “I am.”  
  
“You’re wrong about one thing, though,” said Achilles, his hand on the brass doorknob.  
  
“Oh, yes? Your wife’s a teetotaller?”  
  
“No. I don’t have mistresses. Only you.” He was gone in a jingle of bells. They hung over the door and were older than most of the antiques that Draco palmed off on gullible tourists.  
  
“Foolish man,” muttered Draco, and opened his ledgers to tot up the day’s takings.  
  
  
:: ::  
  
  
The white fez with the ruby was a shameless extravagance, given that Draco was supposed to be a Westerner. However, he found the traditional dress of Cairo a reassurance in its resemblance to wizarding attire. His fellow antique dealers, neighbours and customers had grown used to seeing Draco walking the streets in robes, white from head to toe, as his hand-tooled shoes were cream leather and his hair was bleached to the colour of bone from the sun.   
  
On the other hand, he could only get away with wearing the fez on special occasions. Dinner with Achilles du Toit was one such occasion. His wife had produced yet another child, and this had occupied much of Achilles’ time during the past few months. Draco was looking forward to his company -- his informed conversation on the better parts of the Muggle world and his impeccable taste in wine -- as much as he was anticipating what came after.  
  
Draco inspected his face in the mirror. Magic mirrors were a vanity that could not make the transition to pseudo-Muggle living. They tended to give themselves away to visitors and the last thing Draco wanted was the Egyptian equivalent of the Magical Reversal Squad outing him at last. It would have been nice, though, for someone to check if he had a spot in a place he couldn’t see, or to bolster him up about his appearance before a nerve-wracking night on the tiles.   
  
He poured some pungent oil into his palms and worked them together. He’d had to adapt to doing things the 'long' way whenever he had overnight guests. Clothes and toiletries flying from the cupboards of their own accord tended to have strong effects upon said guests -- such as running out of the house screaming and stark naked.   
  
Oiling his hair, however, was one of the few primping tasks that Draco actually enjoyed. He slid his hands over his scalp and teased the ends of his hair flat, before settling the fez at a jaunty angle. He smiled and winked to himself in the mirror much as it would have done for him years before, in Hogwarts or Malfoy Manor.   
  
Satisfied, he picked up his wallet and stowed it away. Anti-Detection Charms were proof against pickpockets, although Achilles had often had cause to remark that Draco seemed to ward off thieves by magic. Draco doubted that Achilles meant real magic, but he was considering having his wallet stolen once just to dispel any lingering suspicion. Better that than leaving even the smallest chance that Achilles might discover the truth and with it, the life that Draco had once led.   
  
He didn’t notice the owl tapping at his window, for the simple reason that he had not expected to see another one for the rest of his life.  
  
  
:: ::  
  
  
“You’re late.”  
  
“I am?” Draco raised his eyebrows. He tended towards poor timekeeping, so he’d made a special effort to be on time for this. Clearly it had not paid off.  
  
“Yes. Two minutes and twenty-three -- four -- seconds late,” said Achilles, tapping his wrist-watch. It was a heavy gold affair with far more hands and faces than could possibly be necessary. Draco was impressed that Achilles had managed to read any time from it at all.  
  
“How ridiculous.” Draco tilted his head at the waiter who’d pulled out a chair for him. “I thought I’d actually kept you waiting.”  
  
“You have,” said Achilles. He reached forward to cover Draco’s hand with his own. Draco snatched his away and held it safe in his lap. He waited until the waiter was well out of earshot before he spoke.  
  
Smiling, Draco said through clenched teeth, “Have you lost your mind? We’re in a public place, remember? For all you know, some of your associates could be dining here tonight.”  
  
Achilles looked panicked for a moment and stared around the room. In trying to do it discreetly, he attracted the attention of three other tables who caught his eye and, most likely, wondered who he was looking for.   
  
Draco swore under his breath. He’d taken a swoop of the room as he walked in and made sure that no one he or Achilles knew was there, but he had been counting on a complete lack of interest from other diners to put the seal on their discretion. Achilles had just blown that wide open. Draco was starting to wonder if he somehow wanted them to be caught. It served Draco right for taking up with bored husbands. Few suited the cloak and dagger lifestyle. If they had, they never would have married in the first place.  
  
“There’s no one here, but that’s no reason to let down your guard.” Draco’s hiss felt cold against the back of his teeth. “And keep your feet away from mine -- the tablecloths only reach halfway down.”  
  
“All right, mother,” said Achilles, beginning to look irritated.  
  
“You’d think this was my marriage on the line,” muttered Draco. He disguised his comment against the rim of his wineglass.   
  
“This is an excellent vintage,” he remarked, hoping to cool Achilles down. In reckless moods he was prone to extravagant gestures. It would be a long time before Draco forgot the trip to the Pyramids. The hidden alcoves and stairways probably hadn’t seen so much action since they were built. Draco, on the other hand, was not quite so keen to share his sexuality with the rest of the world -- dead or otherwise.  
  
Achilles proceeded to declaim the merits of the wine until Draco had drained the glass. By then he had forgotten his annoyance with Draco, for which Draco was duly grateful.  
  
“Are we ready to order?” asked the waiter, who had sidled up beside them like a bashful crab. Draco almost yelped in surprise. The waiters at Kali’s had to be getting special training in stealth, he decided. From international spies.  
  
“Yes, thank you,” said Achilles. Draco grabbed up his menu and discarded it a second later. It was easier to order what Achilles ordered. That way, at least, Achilles couldn’t steal half his meal under the pretence of 'tasting' it and then subject it to a detailed critique.   
  
“And you, sir?” said the waiter, with a voice as slick as an oil spill.   
  
“Oh, the same.” Draco lounged back in his chair and bestowed on Achilles his first smile of the evening.  
  
“Excuse me, sir.” The waiter was still hovering. Draco frowned at him. What did he want? A signed declaration that Draco had made up his mind what to order?  
  
The waiter extracted a silver platter from somewhere hidden deep within his penguin suit and brandished it level with Draco’s nose. A single envelope lay on the platter, the thick paper a dull gleam against the mirror-like sheen of the silver. Draco felt a sudden, sick twist in his gut.  
  
It would have been most odd not to, so Draco plucked up the envelope and flipped it on to the tablecloth. He tried to vanquish the feeling that it was an apple and that there was a serpent hidden somewhere underneath the exquisite damask.  
  
“Thank you,” snapped Achilles, all but waving the man away.   
  
Draco stared after the waiter and he turned back. He raised his hand and mouthed something, but Achilles was muttering and Draco couldn’t make out what the waiter had said. Draco turned away to send Achilles a placating smile and when he looked back, the waiter had disappeared.  
  
“Are you going to open that?” Achilles nodded at the envelope, face down on the cloth. Draco followed his gaze, noting with a leap of apprehension that it was merely paper folded over and sealed with wax.   
  
“Damn odd way of delivering post,” said Achilles, and Draco agreed.  
  
His hands were _not_ trembling as he slid his fingers beneath the envelope and levered it up. That’s what he told himself, anyway; that was the refrain that reverberated in his head. As long as he concentrated on the fact that his hands were _not_ trembling -- that he was, in fact, cool, calm and collected -- then he could ignore how loud his own breathing sounded to his ears.  
  
On the front was a direction that made Draco’s heart foster ambitions to stop entirely. It read: 'D. Malfoy.'  
  
“Come along, Felix, open the bloody thing and we can get back to us,” complained Achilles. His voice sounded as far away as if he were standing on the beaches of Troy.   
  
Ignoring him, Draco snatched at his knife. He missed it, slamming the handle with his wrist and sending it spinning away under the legs of a matron in vermilion two tables over. Achilles exclaimed, but Draco just tore the envelope open. He realised, as in his horror he had suspected, that it was not paper at all but fine, expensive parchment.  
  
A newspaper clipping floated out of the wreckage, drifting indolently on the air currents of the balmy night. Draco let it fall into his lap, reading as he went and quite unable to do anything so co-ordinated as reach out a hand and pick it up.  
  
“Felix, what is it? Bad news? Would you please _say_ something, Felix?”  
  
Draco looked up and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the bar. It was a gilt-trip in brass grapes and brazen nymphs. It did not look like the sort of glass that should be reflecting a face like Draco’s at that moment.  
  
“Felix? Say something!”  
  
“I have to go,” croaked Draco, shoving back his chair. The legs protested, so he pushed harder and it overturned. The crash sent waiters scurrying over like rats from a sinking ship, but Draco paid them no mind. He closed his fist around the crumple of newsprint and turned on his heel, leaving behind a broken chair, a snapped knife, parchment confetti, a stunned lover and three hundred pounds’ worth of damages.  
  
  
:: ::  
  
  
The moon rose. Its cold light glinted off the crescent of Draco’s thumbnail and the valleys of his thumb, clenched as it was and had been for hours. He was sitting in a deliberate posture of relaxation: one foot hooked over the arm of his chair, one arm slung over the back, spare hand resting paler than white on his lap.   
  
In the morning, Achilles would come looking for him. He wouldn’t come tonight; he had his wife, his children to get back to, and besides he’d want to punish Draco for his irrational behaviour. Achilles being the sort of man he was, he assumed that being deprived of his company was the worst thing that could happen to someone who loved him. He sometimes forgot that Draco was his lover, not his son.   
  
By morning, he’d want to know what had provoked Draco into denying himself a night of fine dining, of seduction and pleasure. By morning, Draco had to be gone.  
  
The moon woke him out of his deep thought. Without haste, he unhooked himself from the chair and stretched. The folds of his white robe fell about him, crinkling with the movement. Draco thought for a moment, then pulled it over his head and dropped it on the floor. That disguise had been penetrated. Wand summoned, he walked nude to the small protrusion on the wall that he told everyone who asked was a bricked-in window. Several words and a flash of purple light later, a door stretched itself into the space.  
  
Magical books were available in Cairo just as easily as they were in Diagon Alley, and in some places easier. Magic had been wrought upon the tombs of the Pharaohs long before the first hedge witch in England had cut himself a wand. These books were older and perhaps darker, but they were from a time when the light was just as dangerous and fathomless as the dark. The building blocks of everyday magic had been fashioned from them.  
  
Draco selected two or three and, sinking to the grimy floor, began to read.   
  
When he left in the morning, nothing was left of his shop but a derelict shack, with a torn white rag on the sagging floor of the single room. Just as Draco had found it.


	2. Chapter 2

Draco fingered the small pouch of money in his pocket. When he was fifteen, it would have been a fortune: enough to keep him in Honeyduke’s sweets and favours from his housemates for weeks. Now he doubted if it would get him as close to England as Paris.  
  
Over the last few years Draco had grown out of the habit of using wizarding money. The Galleons felt unwieldy in his pocket, taking twice the space that an equal value of Egyptian pounds would have done.  
  
There were no such things as forgery detectors charmed into Muggle money, a fact that had paid Draco dividends during his time as an antique collector, wheeler and dealer. Muggles certainly didn’t mind being paid in unmarked gold bars, so long as they were 'genuine.' If the sources were far enough away that Draco had to Apparate to get there, he’d use leprechaun gold and a good disguise. If they were local he’d use Transfigured gold. Occasionally he gave real change. That was rare.  
  
The fact remained that Draco had very little realisable cash. Ordinarily he would have travelled by magic alone. What with the news from his anonymous correspondent, however, England’s overseas Apparition points would be heavily guarded, unauthorised Portkeys would be slammed down on with anvil-like force and, for Draco, taking the long-distance Floo Network was out of the question. He no longer had contacts with a friendly fire. He supposed he could take his chances on an unspecified fire, but his luck being what it was he’d most likely end up in the main reception of the Ministry of Magic -- or, even better, Auror headquarters.  
  
That left Muggle transport. The prospect turned Draco cold with terror, but his monetary predicament was an Artic blizzard by comparison.  
  
He wished he hadn’t thought of Honeyduke’s. He was hungry now and his food Transfiguration was below par. Besides, no matter how skilled the practitioner at physical details, Draco always found that Transfigured food retained the taste of whatever it had been Transfigured _from_. Hungry or not, he had no great desire to dine upon cardboard. As for conjuring food out of 'thin air,' that was NEWT standard magic and Draco didn’t have his NEWTs.  
  
A moment later, the ship parted company with the dock and, soon afterwards, Draco parted company with his breakfast. Seasickness was something he had encountered before, with Achilles on his yacht. At least this time he knew he wasn’t going to die, although he still felt like he was.  
  
 _Oh well_ , he thought, trying to distract himself from the abject misery of emptying his stomach repeatedly over the rail of a second-rate, Muggle, cattle-cart excuse for a ship. _At least that solves the food problem_.  
  
  
:: ::  
  
  
Had he been in Madrid before? Draco couldn’t quite remember. All cities seemed to have a core in common, where the rubbish was piled high, civilisation made its mark in the form of poorly spelled graffiti, and the dregs of humanity eked out a miserable existence.  
  
As Draco whiled away the hours walking and pretending that it was a substitute for eating, the sky darkened. Now, after a while in a cinema that possessed an unlocked side door, Draco emerged to find that it had rained.  
  
His eyes were dazzled by the combination of shadow and glowing images, all of people smoking a lot and gabbling incomprehensibly. Draco had toyed with the idea of spending the night there, but the ushers had torches and the person in the seat next to him had started stroking his leg without offering to pay, which Draco took as an ill omen.  
  
The streets were greasy with puddles and sporting the just-painted look of wet gravel. Within minutes there were colourless streaks climbing the legs of Draco’s cheap, white canvas trousers. The splashes soon darkened to reveal their true colours, those of engrained mud.  
  
Without thinking, Draco’s hand had crept to his pocket again, his fingers brushing his too-light money pouch. The newspaper clipping was in there as well, but Draco didn’t want to take it out. The rain or the humidity would surely smudge it and, as it was his only copy, Draco couldn’t risk that. He only wished he knew the date of its publication.  
  
He must have been here before, he decided, as his feet led him without faltering to what had to be the hooker’s district. He passed one or two loitering women, clawing at cigarettes and arrayed in fake leather, tottering heels and cloying perfume. One called out to him, but Draco didn’t understand the Spanish.  
  
Another jerked her head at her companion, a knowing look in her eye that took in Draco’s walk and his hair, although what she could tell from that Draco couldn’t imagine. He’d let the darkening glamours fade in the cinema, but the rain had done for any fancy coiffure at which he might have been aiming. On the other hand, the woman looked older than him, so she probably had years of street experience behind her. Some things came by instinct after a while.  
  
They were the cheap whores, though -- the ones for cash-straitened bank clerks and off-duty taxi drivers. The best the streets had to offer would be found along the brightly lit strip that Draco was now pausing to survey from the corner. These would be wearing fake designer minis, although with an equal lack of style.  
  
Yet another one catcalled him as he started down the strip. This time he turned to her.  
  
“You no _espanol_ ,” she informed him, grinning. Her teeth were fading to yellow at the edges, like those of a skull. “You want here.” She waved him on, gesturing to an alley opposite them. Her nails were fearsome concoctions the colour of blood.  
  
“Thank you,” said Draco, eliciting a giggle from the girl.  
  
He could feel her eyes on him as he crossed the street, careful to keep his shoulders back and to not pay too much attention to the oncoming traffic. Imagining that the cars would stop for him had always been a good way to goad himself into what was to come. So much of life was like a losing game -- what was the harm in extending the charade, if it helped him?  
  
He turned back once. As he suspected, the hooker had gathered some of her girlfriends and all of them were watching him. His friend raised one hand and Draco noticed that her nails matched her red, star-spangled dress. Draco tilted his head to her and made his way into the alley.  
  
Here, the buildings loomed so much that the sky was almost invisible. The pavements were already dry. That was as much as Draco took in before his attention was diverted by the alley’s inhabitants. Most kept to doorways and lampposts, but some, like Draco intended to, were just trawling for trade. If they were pimps about, Draco couldn’t see them. At the same time, Draco found himself chewing a thumbnail out of anxiety. He didn’t want to be here too long. Street wars were nasty events.  
  
Ducking into an archway, he shot off a rapid-fire series of spells. They removed the dirt from his trousers and did the best they could with his hard features by reddening his mouth, darkening his eyelashes, and shadowing his cheekbones. As an afterthought, he added in a Bewitching Charm. Short-term Dark Magic, which could land him in hot water if it were detected. Draco had the feeling that he wasn’t the only wizard selling his body tonight, though. He never had been before. It would be like every other place: the Aurors, like the police, contented themselves with periodic swoops and availed of the indigenous services on their downtime.  
  
It worked, too. Draco only made it as far as the end of the alley when a man materialised out of the shadows. Draco was glad it was a man. Women were hard work and there was a reason he was gay, after all.  
  
“I can tell you’re not from these parts,” the man said, in accented but otherwise flawless English.  
  
“That’s right.” Draco spoke in English to save the man the trouble of trying French on him. People often assumed that he was French, although Draco had no idea why. The only pale French people he’d ever met -- and they had been few in number -- were either red-heads or foreigners.  
  
“I do so like meeting people from other cultures,” murmured the man, plucking at the sleeve of his jacket. It shimmered under his fingers. “Particularly those of like mind to myself.”  
  
Draco studied him from beneath his lashes, a technique that had taken months to perfect. The man was short, rather plump and spoke without nervousness -- a regular, then, but on the hunt for fresh blood. He reminded Draco a little of a beardless Achilles. The fleeting resemblance stung Draco. He supposed he should have expected the pain, but he hadn’t. He had never been very good at dealing with it, either.  
  
“Really?” he remembered to reply. He was out of practice, but he seemed to be doing all right. Perhaps this man liked his prey silent.  
  
“Yes.” The sibilance turned into a smile, one side of the mouth only. Draco would have liked to kiss it, but that was out of the question. One did not kiss whores, because one did not know where their mouths had been last. Not that some didn’t pay for the privilege all the same.  
  
“I like star-gazing,” said Draco. It was a line that would have worked better had there been any stars to see, but it was just an elaborate ruse anyway. He could have said 'cow-tipping' for all the difference it made. It, too, was an after-dark activity. “I like to take people to look at the stars with me. Do you --?”  
  
“I quite adore it,” said the man, drawing Draco closer by the elbow. Draco had to remind himself to let him; he was too used to rejecting Achilles’ advances. Too used to nurse-maiding an adulterer. “Is it an expensive pastime?”  
  
“It depends,” drawled Draco. On whether he wanted to earn his aeroplane fare in one night or sleep at all. “On whether you have a car to get there.”  
  
The man’s fingers lay on his elbow -- ringless, hairless, bearing a great resemblance to chipolatas with fingernails. “I have a car.”  
  
  
:: ::  
  
  
Draco came awake with ease, one of his few talents. He shook his hair out of his eyes, smoothening it down in a quick movement. Moving with speed, but no haste, he slid out of the crumpled sheets and reached for his articles of clothing. The contents of his pockets he had stored underneath the mattress when his companion had gone to wash up in the hotel bathroom the night before.  
  
The very first time, Draco had left his wallet on the bedside table, with his wages inside. He’d awakened the next morning to find both gone and an irate housekeeper hammering on his door, demanding that he vacate the room immediately. It hadn’t been terribly difficult to make up the deficit -- not with the advantages of magic and acute desperation on his side -- but after that Draco didn't intend to be the victim ever again.  
  
He scrabbled about under the mattress. It was a difficult business given the other man’s weight, which made a crater-like dip in the bed. Once Draco had located his things, he tucked his wand up his sleeve and stuffed the euro notes in his pocket. He’d counted them the night before, as the man doled them out. He doubted the man had realised this, for Draco had taken pains to keep his expression one of vacant helplessness. Draco knew the exact price of a ticket to London, however, and he had no objection to taking a first-class seat.  
  
He slipped out of the room with the aid of a Disillusionment Charm. The man might have liked his money’s worth, paying till morning as he had, but Draco had seen in the dawn on his stomach and that would do. The dull ache beneath his eyes might have been tiredness or the beginnings of heartache, but neither emotion held any attraction for Draco. There was no need to indulge in them.  
  
He bought himself a roll and coffee in an all-night café. The pink halogen light was broken in three places; no doubt some wit had spotted the potential to make a swearword out of the name, but the joke was lost on Draco. The interior was a wasteland of crumbs and sticky tabletops, leached of all colour. Even the waitress’ blonde hair was more snow than honey.  
  
When he visited the men’s room, graffitti was scrawled all over the urinals. Draco couldn’t make head nor tail of it, but he could guess at the general contents. He caught his wand before it fell into the grubby trough, instead stowing it into his back pocket.  
  
He wondered what provoked people to leave behind such a careless biography of themselves. He wouldn’t like it if the only mark he’d made in the world were on the porcelain of a grotty pissoir. Then again, that decision had already been made for him; perhaps this was yet another of his subconscious' attempts to make the best of things. If he were given full control of the reins of his own life, would he prefer to pass away with nothing but a _Draco Malfoy woz ere_ to denote his existence? It was easier not to know.  
  
A cheery whistle made him start and fasten his trousers with flying fingers. A swishing sound announced the arrival of the janitor, drawing extravagant circles on the floor with his mop. He winked at Draco as Draco moved past him to the sinks to wash his hands. Draco watched him in the mirror. The earphones jammed into the boy’s ears emitted a tinny jangle and kept him fully occupied, unaware of Draco’s admiring eyes.  
  
The boy was a boy -- his hands and ears were too big for him. All the same, there was no disguising the fact that he was lovely. Inheritance played a large part, of course, in the dusky tones of his skin and hair, but all the genetics in the world couldn’t bring huge eyes and a too-generous mouth into pleasing alignment. That was down to pure luck.  
  
The boy’s shoulders stiffened as he turned to the sinks. Draco whipped his gaze away just in time. Now was not the time to be eyeing up anyone, not when he had his cash. It was sinking low to be stirred by a toilet-cleaner in any case.  
  
All the same, as Draco sauntered back to his cooling coffee, he couldn’t help but be thankful that the boy’s pretty face had replaced that of his most recent lover. Overweight men might look dapper when camouflaged by tailored suits and costly pomades, but when bare and dripping with sweat their appearance told another story.  
  
Draco fiddled with the packaging of an unappetising biscuit and pondered his next steps. He could hail a taxi to take him to the airport, catch an aeroplane to London, and then … what? He wasn’t sure. Or, he could rest a night, catch up on the sleep for which the two hours’ catnap had not compensated and think out his plan a little more. Even better, he could get one.  
  
To buy himself time, he ordered another coffee. It tasted like burnt toast cinders. Once, he wouldn’t have drunk anything that hadn’t come from the finest Moroccan growers. Once, he'd been such a little fool.  
  
“ _Leche_?” asked the ivory-haired waitress.  
  
Draco shook his head, and covered his cup for good measure. She moved on, to mop at a nearby table in a desultory manner. She had a very ample behind, as Draco had plenty of chance to discover. Whether by accident or design, she kept it in his direct line of vision for the next five minutes and Draco was held captive by a sort of horrified fascination.  
  
All at once, he recalled Vincent’s after-dark descriptions of his assignations with Millicent.  
  
Not so much the details, which were hazy in any case and which Draco had blocked from his memory, possibly out of self-defence. No, it was more the half-remembered feeling of a sultry Hogwarts night, hot enough to warm even the dungeons.  
  
Gregory, lying on his side like a small mountain made of blankets, making valiant efforts to keep his sleepy eyes open out of loyalty to his friend. Theo, sitting up in bed with his arms wrapped around his skinny knees, drinking in every word but often breaking the monologue with vociferous objections. Theo was the sort of boy who _knew_ , even if he didn’t necessarily ever get a chance to _do_.  
  
Blaise, lying on his back and feigning disinterest, but not one so deep as to warrant closing his curtains to bar the sound of Vincent’s descriptions. Not that he closed his curtains very often in any case, exhibitionist that he was. Draco could remember keeping one eye on him, to see if he showed any reaction to Vincent’s more detailed exploits as much to sneak glances at his half-exposed torso.  
  
Blaise was the one Draco had always courted, who took the place Harry Potter might have been supposed to fill had events gone another way. Then again, Harry Potter would have been a galumphing idiot no matter what. He wasn’t anything like Blaise, whom Pansy had branded a 'dragon-charmer' in a fit of pique. It was not a complimentary epithet but had turned out to be a very apt one all the same, because Draco was not exempt.  
  
Blaise had never shown any interest in Pansy -- who was the richest, if not the prettiest, of the Slytherin girls. He purposely left her to Draco and had once informed him of the fact. All the same, there were nights when Blaise never made it back to the dormitory, nights that made Draco burn with jealousy and fuelled him through his fumblings with Pansy. The fumblings had evolved into little more than that, much as Pansy would have preferred otherwise. One advantage of Draco’s brush with the Dark Lord in sixth year was that it least provided an excuse for a dead libido.  
  
“Sorry to bother you,” said a voice that broke into his reveries. At a most opportune moment, thought Draco; he had no interest in reliving the rest of his and Blaise’s ignominious history.  
  
“I was wondering -- well, could I sit down?”  
  
“Of course,” said Draco with vague courtesy. He blinked back the ghosts of memory that clung to his eyelids.  
  
The stranger scraped back the chair opposite and slung his legs over it. Draco realised with a slight tremor that it was the janitor. Who was grinning at him, showing teeth that were bright against the darkness of his face and a little crooked.  
  
“We’re not really supposed to chat up ‘patrons --’” he wrinkled his nose as if to show exactly what he thought of the calibre of the café’s clientele “-- but my shift ends in five minutes, so I thought what the hell?”  
  
“Quite.” Draco, still rather rattled, realised a minute too late what he was agreeing to. “What -- hang on, chat up?”  
  
“Yeah, is that the right word?” The boy frowned, drawing together two brows as fine as ashes. Draco speculated that his chest was marred by large birthmarks, to make up for his face, and soon wished that he hadn’t. He was fired by a desire to check.  
  
“It’s the right word, but whether it’s the right meaning I’m not so sure,” murmured Draco, at last surmounting the obstacle presented by the intricate biscuit packaging and ripping it open. Broken biscuit crumbs sprayed on to every available surface, providing a welcome distraction.  
  
The boy smiled again, trapping a morsel of biscuit with a damp finger. “Do you drink beer?”  
  
“Not at six in the morning, no, I don’t,” said Draco. He mouthed the rim of his coffee mug. He’d noticed earlier that it had not been washed with any great degree of assiduity, so he set it down, but not before spotting that the top buttons on the shirt the boy wore under his plastic apron were open. They hadn’t been before. There wasn’t any sign of scarring on the tempting skin thus revealed, either.  
  
“What’s your name?” he asked.  
  
“Stefano,” the boy replied, leaning his elbows on the table.  
  
“Well, Stefano,” Draco took the time to enjoy the way the name rolled off his tongue, “what’s to say I’m not the sort of person who takes advantage of stupid young boys like yourself, luring them away and forcing them to do unspeakable things?”  
  
Far from looking chastened, Stefano grinned. “It depends on what sort of unspeakable things you had in mind.”  
  
Draco rolled his eyes. He’d been cockier than that, once; it did not make it any easier to take. “You’re, what? Eighteen?”  
  
“Seventeen,” was the quick reply. Draco felt a bit feeble. _The same age as_ \-- he shook his head, as if that would dislodge thoughts as well as it would seawater.  
  
“And what’s more, I know,” added Stefano. He nodded at Draco’s lap with a significant expression. Draco felt his colour rise, but he was almost certain that Stefano hadn’t seen Draco studying him in the bathroom mirror.  
  
“What do you mean, you know?” he snapped. “And please, I don’t want a list of your school marks, thank you very --”  
  
“I know you’re a -- you know.” Stefano twirled his hand in front of his pursed lips. “Magician, is that the word?”  
  
Space compressed itself into a ball around Draco’s head. “Wizard,” he corrected, his voice a contorted wheeze.  
  
“Yeah, that.” Stefano smiled, unaware of Draco’s high discomfort. “My brother, he got a letter to go to a school in France. Eh, I know a wand when I see one, anyway.”  
  
“Beauxbatons?”  
  
“Sounds right.” Stefano jumped up. “I have to sign out -- wait here?”  
  
It was barely a question, but Draco found himself saying, “Okay,” all the same. Of course, he could have got up and walked out of the door, down the street and away. So it came as a surprise to him that he was still sitting there, crushing biscuit crumbs to fine powder, when Stefano came back.  
  
Then, he took in what Stefano’s long legs looked like in indigo jeans.  
  
Draco had to get back to England soon. But a day, or several, wouldn’t make that much difference. It wasn’t like anyone was expecting him, after all.


	3. Chapter 3

Stefano had his ‘own place.’ This turned out to be a basement apartment in an insalubrious quarter, where washing lines strung from window to window obscured the sky. Stefano also had another job to go to -- one of several, as Draco was to discover, all of them transient and apparently of little interest to the Muggle Tax Department. He showed Draco the bathroom and the refrigerator, well stocked with beer and mouldy cheese, then he was gone. Draco told Stefano that his name was Andrew; he gave no surname and Stefano did not offer one of his own.  
  
Draco kicked off his shoes -- a gift from Achilles and the last remnants of his last life -- and rubbed his heels. He still wasn’t certain how he’d come to participate in this situation, but he was here now. For a bachelor’s apartment, it was quite neat -- if exceptionally tacky. Each doorway had strings of plastic beads in place of doors. For a sofa there was an ancient mattress festooned with brightly coloured and tattered cushions. Draco lay back on the mattress to engage in a staring competition with the naked light bulb, which was painted red.   
  
There were a few books on a poorly erected shelf -- for show purposes only, as Draco realised on inspection. None of them had their spines broken and the pages smelled newly-minted. Draco had no idea what was so special about them, but books were books. He felt a brief, sharp longing for his library at Malfoy Manor and the small one he’d assembled, and been forced to abandon, in Cairo.   
  
The book he’d chosen, _On the Road_ , was a poor substitute, but it was a better companion than nothing. There were some pornographic magazines as well, but Draco’s tastes didn’t run to buxom blonde women so he let them alone.  
  
It occurred to him that the books were almost all in English and that Stefano’s grasp on the language was stronger than was to be expected, but he didn’t wonder about it for very long. Stefano later told him that his mother was an Englishwoman who had fallen for the son of a rich Spanish merchant, with whom she’d conducted a torrid affair, then fled the wrath of his family. Draco didn’t believe a word of it, but Stefano did have eyes that were more hazel than brown and his English was good enough that Draco didn’t have to resort to using Spanish. He allowed Stefano his lie. He knew too well how valuable they were.  
  
Draco was halfway through the book, had raided the refrigerator twice and made an inspection of the lavatorial facilities -- clean but worn, the towels bald -- when Stefano returned. A bulging plastic bag was slung from one wrist and he was shoving his keys into his back pocket with his other hand.  
  
“Hey, Andrew,” said Stefano, sounding pleased.  
  
“Stefano.” Draco tilted his head but did not raise his eyes from his book. “So you come home to find your house ransacked, your belongings vanished and ‘Ha, ha, sucker’ written on your living room wall with yellow spray paint.”  
  
“You have a good imagination.” Stefano dumped his purchases on the round Formica table. It played host to three empty wine bottles, an overflowing ashtray and a pile of unpaired socks. Draco had been visited by an urge to put them together during his sojourn on the mattress, but realised all too well how odd that would look. “I’m a better judge of character than that.”  
  
“Oh, really?” Draco stifled a laugh.   
  
“And I have a very good taste in boyfriends,” added Stefano, with a large helping of youthful arrogance. Draco should have hit him for his presumption, but that would mean abandoning the comfortable dip in the mattress that had taken him the best part of two hours to wriggle out.  
  
“I got Chinese, wine and a DVD.” Stefano pulled the items from his bag with the air of a conjurer displaying a rabbit and a hat for inspection. “I hope you like the _Fast and the Furious_ \-- the English section in the video shop is pretty thin on the ground.”  
  
Draco shrugged, the better not to show his ignorance. The fast and furious what? He had owned a television in Cairo, for the look of the thing, but had never got around to figuring out how to work it. Magic didn’t help, nor did kicking. After that Draco was too bored to bother.  
  
Draco didn’t put aside his book as Stefano doled out pungent-smelling noodles on to what were very obviously his mother’s flower-patterned plates, and poured two glasses of wine, one into a brandy glass. He placed them on the floor near Draco’s bare feet and crawled on to the mattress beside him. Draco had time to appreciate the looseness of Stefano's shirt, due to the four undone buttons, before he was leaning on the wall beside him and stretching out his long legs to flex his toes.   
  
“That feels _good_ ,” he sighed, with unalloyed contentment. “I look forward to this every day.”  
  
“What, taking your shoes off?” asked Draco. Stefano elbowed his side.  
  
“No, sitting _down_ , d'uh.” He seemed to think that Draco’s question had been a lead-in one, for he continued, “I wash up in one of the posh hotels in town. They can’t keep staff so they pay well, but _man_.” He pointed his toes like a ballerina. His feet were narrow, laced with veins, as brown as the rest of him. Draco looked back to his book.   
  
The mattress shifted and a moment later, a glass of wine was forced into his hand. Draco took hold of it in order to save it from spilling on the open pages, but he didn’t intend on drinking much of it.   
  
“Do you always get wine?” he asked with a frown. After all, the refrigerator held an off-licenses’ stock of Heineken.  
  
“Nah, only when I’m bringing someone to bed,” laughed Stefano. He stretched his arms up gracelessly so that his shirt hem rose several tantalising inches. Draco cocked an eyebrow and took a sip of the very rough vintage. The cheapest on the shelf, most likely, although he could hardly fault a seventeen-year-old for his lack of taste buds.  
  
Seventeen. Little more than a child. The realisation sunk in like a weight into unforeseen quicksand. Draco felt disgusted with himself.   
  
Then Stefano’s hand crept on to Draco’s knee and, when Draco turned his face to confront him, Stefano was smirking. There was absolutely nothing else that the cheeky smile and smug tilt of brow could be called.   
  
Perhaps it changed something when the child was willing. Draco had a feeling that the something was his conscience, but Stefano’s fingers -- sliding one translucent plastic button out of its hole after another -- were a fair exchange for it anyway.  
  
Draco laid his wine glass on the floor with more care than it deserved. He guided Stefano on to his back and butterfly-kissed the place where a thick vein throbbed in his throat. It was no trouble to fit his body against the places that were best calculated to wipe the confident look from Stefano’s face. He found hot flesh and trailed his fingers over it, to the accompaniment of Stefano's gasps.  
  
As Draco arched like a bow and looked down at Stefano’s fluttering eyelashes and the amazed O of his mouth, he idly wondered if it was first time that someone had laid a serious hand on him.  
  
He was only seventeen, after all.  
  
Draco felt a twinge of guilt at being his corrupter, but it was soon swamped by a heady miasma of more demanding feelings. He didn’t think the man who’d absolved him of his own virginity had even known he was doing it, much less cared.   
  
In the end, Draco never found out what the fast and furious thing was that Stefano had brought home, and the noodles were greasy when cold. Such were the wages of sin.  
  
  
:: ::  
  
  
Draco took to working the streets during the nights Stefano cleaned the all-night café. Stefano only did it three nights a week, yet Draco brought in enough on those nights to pay for a month’s rent. This he did not do; but after the first week Stefano didn’t need to go grocery shopping again, because Draco did it. Culinary skills had not been a priority on the curriculum of Hogwarts, but in the places he’d ventured after his accelerated leave-taking they had been vital. Draco and Stefano dined finely upon baked beans on toast, spaghetti, shepherd’s pie and beef stew for the length of Draco’s stay.  
  
Draco took care to shower and wash his clothes as the sun burnt the sky red each time. If Stefano thought it odd that Draco’s skin was always scrubbed raw and his sleep faked on his arrival, he didn’t mention it. Draco decided that he was romantic enough to imagine it wasn’t happening, or young enough to think it romantic.  
  
“Why aren’t you in school?” he asked on the second day. They hadn’t made it to the bedroom, so they were trussed up in a holey sheet on the mattress and supported by the scratchy silk cushions, which bore new tears.   
  
“I dropped out,” said Stefano. His back arched so that muscles rippled across his skin, like fantastic creatures wrestling under a blanket. Draco prodded him down, refusing to be distracted.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Why not? There was nothing for me there. So I left home.”  
  
“Left, ran or was pushed?” Draco reached up to tug on Stefano’s glossy hair and bring him closer. He didn’t mind morning breath; on the contrary, he found morning-afters to be the most enjoyable time, perhaps because the consciousness of the night’s events was still half-dormant.  
  
“Just left.” Stefano bat his hand away but squirmed deeper under the sheet all the same. “Damn, I have to be at work soon. I’m hungry.”  
  
He made to move, but Draco kicked him down and reached for his wand instead. “ _Alohomora_!” he instructed the refrigerator. After experimentation he had found that the Sticking Charm on the door -- ‘magnets,’ as Achilles called them -- were as good as a lock. “ _Accio_ , er, beer. Don’t you have any food?” he complained, stretching out a hand to catch the two bumping bottles by the necks.   
  
“In the cupboard,” said Stefano. He took a bottle from Draco and cracked off the lid without looking fazed in the slightest. Draco was the one who was surprised -- at Stefano's apparent knowledge of and disinterest in magical shortcuts. Then again, he’d probably grown used to it from his brother.  
  
“ _Accio_ food,” produced some bread, only a little stale, and honey. Stefano had woken early enough to have a choice between breakfast and Draco, so he chose both. It took Draco the rest of the day to wash the honey out of his hair, the mattress and the floor.  
  
Bit by bit Stefano revealed more about his brother, who now worked for the French Ministry of Magic. Draco privately resolved to absent himself with all due speed if the brother took it into his head to pay Stefano a visit. Stefano always spoke of his brother in slightly mocking tones, but Draco put that down to his age. Of his mother Stefano said little, only that she moved around a lot. Draco didn’t know if this were a euphemism for divorce or being on the run or just itchy feet, but as a fellow wanderer he didn’t care to probe.   
  
Stefano was peculiarly incurious about Draco’s own past. He deduced from Draco’s accent that he’d gone to Hogwarts, which his brother had mentioned once or twice. However, Draco felt sure that if he’d said his parents had chosen to send him to Durmstrang, or teach him at home, or send him to a school in the sky, Stefano would have bought it and, what’s more, not cared much either way. Which suited Draco just fine.  
  
It was a placid existence such as Draco had not enjoyed since his very earliest days in Cairo, before he met Achilles. Stefano, for all his youth, seemed set to continue in the same manner forever. For a while Draco almost came to believe that he would do likewise: learn to speak Spanish as well as Stefano, apply for a real job in a café or hotel where they weren’t too picky about references and background -- start to build a life.  
  
Then two events brought things to a head, and reminded Draco of the utter foolishness of such ideas.   
  
The Spanish summer was just beginning, with sweltering days and promises of rancid heat to come. Draco was folding laundry, not so much out of a great desire for tidy clothing as a complete lack of anything else to do. He had read all of Stefano’s books, much to their owner's bemusement, and there was no point in joining a library or visiting a bookshop until he learned Spanish properly.   
  
That was how he later recalled that day. The use, in his own mind, of the word ‘until.’ The unsubstantiated thought that, this time, he would be allowed to stay.   
  
He carried the fresh-smelling towels -- replaced by his good self -- to the tiny room that served as both wardrobe and broom closet. Draco had taken to wearing a combination of Stefano’s old jeans and a couple of cheap t-shirts. His white canvas shirt and trousers -- a trade for his turban and the ruby that turned out to be an excellent fake -- were bundled at the back of the shelf. Draco took them down to make room for the towels, intending to try them on or throw them out. Then the newspaper article fell out of the trouser pocket and landed at his toes.  
  
It was a quicker drop, this time, than when it had fallen out of its parchment one month and one week before. It was now folded and much heavier, or so it seemed when Draco stooped to retrieve it from a floor that seemed very far away.  
  
He sat on the floor to unfold it -- not that he needed to, really. The images and words were engraved in his mind. It was the work of moments to brush away all the debris that had since obscured them -- Stefano’s laugh, the smell of cooking that engulfed the whole flat, and the habit, whoever it belonged to, of entwining their toes as they lounged in front of one of Stefano’s terrible action films.  
  
There was the main picture, but that one hurt to look at. More interesting were the insets of Granger and the Weasel, toting their respective clans, looking teary-eyed and soppy with joy. Or with constipation, it was hard to tell. Draco had always assumed, in the way he assumed that there would be a disgusting smell after Vincent ate prunes, that those two would end up married to each other. Given their respective vindictive streaks, however, he was not surprised that they had moved on to spread their own personal vendettas over a larger group of people.  
  
Draco counted the children. Five for Granger, three of whom had inherited her crazy shock of hair. The years had done nothing to improve that. Only two for the Weasel, but the paper did say 'recently married,' so his wedding had most likely only been in the last six months. Draco did not recognise their spouses, although he’d hazarded a guess at first sight that they were random Gryffindors. As Harry's companions-at-arms they were famous enough to be captioned as 'Hermione and Ron, the Boy Who Lived’s closest friends, and their families.' So no clues there -- not that he gave a damn.  
  
Both of them gave interviews in the main body of the paper. _For Hermione’s reaction to the joyful event, turn to page three_. It sounded like she was going to give an account of the birth of her latest child, which was squealing incessantly in her arms. _To read Ron’s account of their childhood adventures, turn to page eight_. Defeating the Dark Lord on a regular basis deserved a more grandiose title than 'adventures,' but then again the _Prophet_ had always preferred to couch the dirtier news in genteel terms.  
  
There was little enough text on the neatly-cut snippet Draco had been sent. The back sported a large advertisement for Mrs Skower’s Magical Hair Removal Tonic, an innovation in its own time! What dominated the page, and what Draco was sure he’d been meant to see most of, was Harry Potter’s face, blinking and sleepy-looking. Not that he had any right to look tired; he’d been asleep for eight years.  
  
 _HARRY POTTER WAKES! Today, the_ Daily Prophet _is thrilled to announce that Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, the Defeater of You-Know-Who and holder of an Order of Merlin, First Class, has finally and miraculously awakened from his eight-year-long coma. As everyone knows, this magically-induced coma was brought about by the extreme drain on our hero from his battle with the evillest wizard of our time …_  
  
There were quotes, endless quotes, after that. Arthur and Molly Weasley -- 'Harry’s substitute parents' -- were 'overcome with joy.' The Minister for Magic was 'tremendously pleased.' Hermione was 'ecstatic' -- of course, she would have to use a posher word than everyone else -- and Ron was 'bloody delighted.' No one asked the opinion of a Death Eater -- none of whom, if any besides Draco still lived, were very likely to be feeling any of these wonderful emotions.  
  
Once Draco had been sure that his Dark Mark would never burn again, he’d gone to a backstreet tattoo artist to have it done over. It was now an equally ugly and obscure Chinese character that meant 'Destiny.' That, at least, was what he’d told Achilles, along with the fact that he’d been young and drunk at the time. It was also what he’d told Stefano, along with the fact that a former boyfriend now languishing in a Phillipino gaol sported a matching one. It was even part-way true. The Dark Mark had meant a very certain destiny, but not the nice, bright, PG-rated one people generally meant when they used the word.   
  
Potter still looked so disgustingly _young_. He was twenty-five, of an age with Draco, but Draco felt far older than that. Not old; just older. Even Granger and Weasel looked more mature, although in Weasley’s case it was probably a sham. Potter’s ageing had stopped at seventeen. That had to mean that despite the passing of eight years, he was still seventeen where it counted.   
  
Draco glanced at the wall clock, a cheap piece of trash with a hash plant holding the hands fast and which glowed in the dark in a most obnoxious manner. It was half-past two in the afternoon. Stefano’s shift finished at four, but it might be seven or eight by the time he returned. Draco gathered that he spent the intervening time in a pool hall with his friends. He had, half-heartedly, invited Draco to one or two of these gatherings, but Draco had refused with an equal lack of interest. He got the feeling that Stefano’s friends didn’t know that he had a boyfriend and didn’t care to be in the fall-out radius of that particular piece of information.  
  
So that gave him hours. He didn’t have much to pack. He had money, a little more than when he’d arrived but not much. The majority of his weekly earnings had gone towards food. He began to gather up his clothes, pulling some socks from the empty curtain rail where he’d hung them to dry.  
  
It was then that he spotted Achilles in the street. He was talking to a tall, slim man who couldn’t be anything but Stefano’s brother, the resemblance was so acute. Stefano’s brother was shaking his head and looking puzzled, while Achilles was waving his hands in the air. His mouth dry from forgetting to close it, Draco watched. Achilles used his hands just so when he was describing something -- or someone.  
  
He shrank back when Stefano’s brother looked at the window, and groped for his wand. In a moment, he had placed a Disillusionment Charm on himself and opened the window a little. There was no need for an amplifying spell, not that Draco knew any -- the sound of voices carried almost too well. The row of the middle-aged couple upstairs and the screams of their multiple offspring mingled with the conversation being carried out between Achilles and Stefano’s brother. Draco had to strain to pick it out from amongst the other noises.  
  
“I’m sorry I haven’t been of more help,” Stefano’s brother was saying. “I’m only making a flying visit, I’m afraid.”  
  
“It was only an outside chance,” replied Achilles. “I was beginning to despair of anyone around here knowing any English word that didn’t have four letters in it.”  
  
“Ah, well, I learned English and French at Beau -- at my school,” said Stefano’s brother. “Have you tried the, ah, police?”  
  
“No-oo,” said Achilles. “Felix wouldn’t have wanted that. He’s quite a private person and he left for a reason. I just want to find him.”  
  
Draco could tell from Stefano’s brother’s expression that he was beginning to tire of this exchange; he was fingering the inside of his suit pocket. Draco could easily imagine that he was flicking his nails, something Stefano also had a tendency to do when he was bored.  
  
“I wish you luck in your search,” said Stefano’s brother, “and perhaps Felix will turn up of his own accord.”  
  
“Perhaps.” Achilles' tone was dull.   
  
Draco felt a pang of sympathy, which shot through his trepidation like blood in water. Achilles must miss him. It was still frightening that he had followed him -- no, more that he had traced him this far, to the very street in which Draco was staying. Draco hadn’t taken great care with disguise, the best one being none at all. Then again pursuit had always been a shadowy menace, not a person. That this had now changed was all the stronger proof that he needed to escape.   
  
Achilles walked away, his head bowed and his trousers dusty. Draco had to swallow several times, clutching his socks to his chest in an effort to compose himself. He didn’t notice Stefano’s brother leaping up the stone steps to the door, which opened on to the common hall and was unlocked most of the time. Draco's first encounter with him was when he opened the door to his knock, expecting to find Stefano there complaining of his forgotten keys. Draco took small consolation in the fact that Stefano’s brother was as astonished to see Draco as Draco was to see him.   
  
“Er, hallo,” said Stefano’s brother. “I was looking for Stefano Aribas? Has he moved away --?”  
  
“No, he’s out.” Draco licked his papery lips. “At work,” he added, in case there should be any doubt.  
  
“Good to know he’s not sponging off the system, at least,” muttered Stefano’s brother. He recollected himself and flushed a little. “My apologies, I … may I come in for a while? I only have a very little time away from my work, and I would like to wait for Stefano.”  
  
Draco waved him towards the table without a word. It was moderately cleaner than when Draco had first encountered it, but it suffered from a lack of proper washing and no amount of cleaning would remove the cigarette burns. Stefano’s brother brushed a finger over them, frowning.  
  
He didn’t reveal his connexion to Stefano while Draco offered him a drink, which he accepted. It was early in the day to begin drinking, but Draco intended to use up the expensive bourbon he had purchased now that he had no alternative but to delay his departure for few hours. He pushed a glass across the table to his visitor and raised his own to his lips.  
  
“My apologies,” the other man said, after staring into his glass as if it were an object of ineffable mystery. “I never gave you my name. I’m Alexandre Aribas. Stefano’s older brother. And --?” He let the word hang on the air with his hand, which he had outstretched in an officious manner that did not suit his surroundings.  
  
Draco, for his part, leaned back and ignored it. “Andrew’s my name. And I figured that you were related -- you’re very alike.”  
  
“We are?” Alexandre sounded surprised. Then again, he didn’t have an outsider’s objectivity, and of course for all Draco knew he mightn’t have seen his brother in a long time.   
  
Alexandre jerked his hand back across the table, seeming uncertain what to do with it next. He compromised by wrapping his fingers around the stem of his glass -- the only glasses Stefano owned were brandy and wine ones -- although he did not take a sip.  
  
“Yes,” said Draco, enjoying the other man’s discomfiture. He did not go so far as to point out the only real difference between them: that Stefano was pretty, but Alexandre handsome. Governments and bureaucracies tended to be ultra-conservative places and he could offend Alexandre more than necessary by such an observation. And release secrets not his own.  
  
Or not, as it happened. “Tell me, Andrew, are you and my brother roommates? Is that why you’re here?”  
  
“We live together, yes,” agreed Draco. He tipped his glass to let the heat of the liquid trickle on to his tongue.  
  
“Roommates?” pressed Alexandre.   
  
“Well,” drawled Draco, “there is only one bedroom. But you’re technically correct.”  
  
Alexandre compressed his lips. It looked to Draco as if he were biting the insides of them.  
  
“He’s a bit young to have that sort of roommate,” said Alexandre, after a lengthy pause, which Draco was almost fearing would turn out to be an everlasting one.  
  
“Really, why? How old is he?” asked Draco, ruffling his hair.  
  
Alexandre looked outraged, but Draco disarmed him with a smirk. “Look, Alexandre, seventeen is young, I’ll agree. But if he were a wizard he’d have been of age for months -- and besides, _he_ seduced _me_.”  
  
Alexandre gaped at him. His slicked-back hair was beginning to spring into curls around his hairline, something Stefano’s didn’t do. Their mouths probably tasted different as well. Oh, there were plenty of dissimilarities between them, Draco was sure.   
  
Draco pulled his wand out of his jeans and flicked it at the refrigerator, almost lazily. “ _Accio_ ice,” he called. “Duck,” he advised Alexandre, who obeyed with no hint of anything but autopilot response in his face.  
  
“It’s very hot,” observed Draco, sliding an ice cube along his brow, over his cheek and down to his collar-bones as it melted between his fingers.   
  
“Thank you for the show,” said Alexandre, in a tight little voice. “I don’t suppose your -- intentions towards my brother are honourable, are they?”  
  
“Not in the least.” Draco was pleased that Alexandre caught on so fast. “In fact, I was going to leave him, but then you arrived.”  
  
“Leave him? Why?” Alexandre’s voice carried a cadence of genuine distress. Draco doubted he was extraordinarily eager to remain in Draco’s company, so it had to have sprung from genuine concern for his brother.  
  
“I have to go to England,” said Draco. “Today.”  
  
He wondered if Alexandre recognised him, but thought it doubtful. He was three years older than his brother, making him twelve at the time of the Dark Lord’s fall. The French Ministry was snobbish to the point of coldness in any case and refused to have anything to do with the British Ministry. Newspaper reports on the British ructions had also been kept to a minimum. Draco knew because he’d happened to be in France at the time. The news of the Dark Lord’s defeat and Potter’s subsequent illness had probably been splashed all over the _Daily Prophet_ , but the _Le Monde Magique_ had not followed suit.   
  
“Were you going to tell Stefano?”  
  
“Yes -- well, probably.” Draco pulled at his lip. “If I saw him before I left, certainly.”  
  
“You cold bastard,” spat Alexandre. He looked as if he wanted to hit Draco. Draco knew the expression well, he was so used to inducing it in the faces of others.  
  
“On the contrary, a clean break is exactly what he needs,” Draco corrected him mildly. “I’m almost certain that his dalliance with me is experimentation, nothing more. He strikes me as someone who covets acceptance too much ever to really embrace the, shall we say, ‘alternative lifestyle.’”  
  
“ _You_ can say it,” said Alexandre, but he did sound hopeful. “So you think --?”  
  
“Give him a few years, then settle him down with a nice _senorita_.” Draco licked his fingers free of melting ice. There was a slightly metallic taste to the water, which Draco blamed on the steel ice-tray. Stefano’s, from a time before Draco -- a time in which his taste ran to ice-cubes in the shape of naked breasts. “In fact, convince him to go to one of the Muggle Universities -- he’s reasonably bright.”  
  
“University?” repeated Alexandre in a scornful voice. “How on earth would he get into one of those?”  
  
“Well, I’m sure there’s some way around it,” said Draco with a shrug. “I know he didn’t finish school, but he’s sure to have sat an exam --”  
  
“I don’t think a handful of EMOs will help him there,” interrupted Alexandre. “It’s not exactly recognised as a European qualification, is it?”  
  
“EMO? I thought they did a Baccalaureate, or something?”   
  
Alexandre stared at him, pity warring with contempt for control of his facial features. “EMO stands for _Examens Magiques Ordinaires_ ,” he said. “It’s the standard-level set of exams in Beauxbatons. And Stefano did do quite well because he is, as you put it, ‘reasonably bright,’ but he got himself expelled before they started. They only let him take them on sufferance.” Alexandre studied Draco. “He never told you, did he? You know, most Muggles, even the ones related to wizards, tend towards a lot more excitement at even simple spells. You didn’t think to question his disillusionment?”  
  
“No,” snapped Draco. “I’m not a psychologist, I’m just a --” he almost said prostitute, but that wouldn’t do at all “-- someone he picked up in a _café_ , for God’s sake!”  
  
“Yes, he liked to do that at school too.” Alexandre nodded. “Made friends with the most hopeless cases, the ones who weren’t ever going to make it to EMS -- _Supérieurs_ \-- the ones who experimented with dangerous potions or cut classes.” He seemed to realise that the comparison to the present company was not the most flattering one, and coughed.   
  
“So, what did he get expelled for?” asked Draco, a small part of his brain aflame with curiosity. Stefano had been a beautiful, but closed book to Draco up until now. He had to admit that knowing Stefano was a wizard -- albeit a failed one -- made Draco more interested in him than he had been in Stefano, the Muggle.  
  
Alexandre pursed his lips. “Well, _I_ shouldn’t tell you, he should have -- but I don’t know anyway. I’d been working at the Ministry for a year and they didn’t release details. Stefano wouldn’t say and of course Mère is a lost cause.”  
  
“Oh,” said Draco. It was all too much for him; there was so much he didn’t know, hadn’t asked -- hadn’t been told. It was the same as it had been with Achilles -- how long had it taken for the truth of his marriage to come out? And Draco had lived in Cairo for four years, three of those knowing Achilles.  
  
He rose from the table and picked up his socks from beside the bottle of bourbon. Stepping across Alexandre’s feet, he opened the closet and began pulling down his meagre stock of clothing.   
  
“Why don’t you use magic?” asked Alexandre. “Is that frowned upon in Hogwarts?”  
  
“Well, we weren’t allowed to use magic outside of school, if that’s what you mean,” said Draco, and took it from Alexandre’s smug expression that such was not the case in France. “But no, I think I’ve just lived around Muggles for too long.”  
  
“Why, if you don’t mind my asking?”  
  
“I do mind, I’m afraid,” said Draco, giving up and shouting, “ _Accio_ Andrew’s things!”  
  
Of course it did not work; the wand did not recognise any Andrew in the vicinity. Lest it try to summon possessions from an Andrew in the next street or city, Draco quickly added a non-verbal “ _Accio_ Draco’s things,” and they began to pile up at his feet. In a very short time, everything he owned was there, and he conjured a simple bag into which to stuff them.  
  
“Have you had a fight? Is that why you’re leaving?” Alexandre had at last deigned to taste his bourbon, with at least as much apprehension as if the glass had been brimful of undiluted cyanide.   
  
“Nah,” said Draco, preoccupied. He couldn’t quite remember where he’d put the newspaper clipping. “It’s time to leave, that’s all.”  
  
“You don’t strike me as the type to be a Seer,” remarked Alexandre. “Have you got any legitimate reason why you’re abandoning my brother like this?”  
  
Draco stared him out of countenance. “I have things I need to do.”  
  
“And they take precedence over Stefano’s heart, do they?”  
  
“Well, yes, actually.” To make it sound a bit more impressive, as well as truthful, Draco added, “It’s a matter of life or death.”  
  
“Yours or someone else’s?” asked Alexandre, spitting out sarcasm with his tiny mouthful of alcohol.  
  
“Both, in fact.” Draco's voice was crisp.   
  
“He’ll want to come.”   
  
“Then I had better leave now.”   
  
“Too late.” Stefano stepped out from the shadows of the miniscule hallway. His face was ashen, but he otherwise seemed composed. “Andrew, I see you’ve met my brother. Alexandre has, as usual, made himself _quite_ at home.” Draco decided he had to be using sarcasm there. Alexandre looked about as comfortable as a goldfish in a piranha tank. It was probably due to the suit; Draco knew they sat badly after years of robes.  
  
“How long have you been there?” demanded Alexandre.   
  
Draco did not waste his breath with petty questions; he knew that the only answer Alexandre would get would be devoid of information, because is some ways Stefano was a perfect match for Draco. Instead he picked up his bag and slung it over one shoulder.  
  
“Long enough,” replied Stefano, confirming Draco’s assumptions.   
  
“I expected you to be home,” said Alexandre. “I’m sorry for imposing --”  
  
“Oh, do stop being such a god awful prig,” interrupted Draco, surprising himself. “Look, Stefano --”  
  
“I quit my job,” announced Stefano. “I’d like to know what you have to do with Harry Potter, please.”  
  
“What do you mean?” asked Draco, at the same time as Alexandre repeated, “Harry Potter?” in highly startled tones.  
  
Stefano waved the newspaper clipping in Draco’s face. “You told me that you hadn’t been back to England in years. Eight years, in fact. So why do you have a piece of an English newspaper? Because this sure as hell isn't mine, Andrew.”  
  
Draco hoisted his bag into a more comfortable position and adopted a nonchalant expression. “Somebody sent it to me.”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“I don’t know!” shouted Draco. Did Stefano _want_ to know how few people would have been able to contact him? And how few of those would have good intentions towards him? Draco didn’t much care if he did; Stefano was not going to get that information out of him.  
  
Stefano dropped his arms, looking them as if astonished to see that they belonged to him at all. “I think you need to tell me some things.”  
  
“No, you first. Why’d you get expelled from Beauxbatons?”  
  
“Okay, I'll stop,” said Stefano, changing tack with a speed that would have made a champion show-jumper jealous. “But I am coming with you.”  
  
“And so am I,” added Alexandre. Both Draco and Stefano turned to stare at him incredulously. Alexandre coughed again. He was starting to sound like a victim of consumption. “I can swing a bit more time off work. I want to see you, little brother. And keep an eye on you. For all we know, Andrew could be a dangerous criminal.”  
  
Draco almost laughed at the guess. His mind jumped from thought to thought -- the main ones being how a Ministry official and an innocent-looking stranger could be of use to him. When he got home.  
  
“Far be it from me to stop you,” he said. “But I have to travel Muggle.”  
  
Alexandre began to object, but Stefano was clearly too delighted with Draco’s unexpected acquiescence to counter him. He kissed Draco on the mouth and went to pack.  
  
Alexandre, looking faintly disgusted, said, “I don’t trust you.”  
  
Draco almost asked him if he was a Gryffindor. “That’s all right,” he said. “If I were you, I wouldn’t trust me either.”


	4. Chapter 4

Draco stared down into the depths of something that, against nature and most accepted wisdoms, was a bright, hallucinogenic pink.   
  
He’d never liked cocktails. He always found them vaguely alarming and certainly deceitful. As such, they should have suited him down to the ground, but really if anything was going to be doing the alarming and deceiving around here it should be _Draco_ , not some over-sweet drink with a naff name.  
  
Yet another strange Muggle song began throbbing and wailing into the sound-system. Draco still wasn’t sure how Stefano had managed to convince him to come to a club, and he was completely in the dark about how he’d coerced Alexandre into it, but there they both were. Both with bright pink drinks. The joke wasn’t lost on Draco, but Alexandre -- if his stormy expression was indicative of his opinion of the matter -- was not exactly bowled over with good humour.  
  
Draco twirled his miniature umbrella around the inexplicable froth on the top of the cocktail. It tasted like a milkshake, which was downright irresponsible. Not to mention that Draco had never had a taste for milkshakes. If drinking he preferred top-shelf spirits, such as his father used to stock. He wondered if his father realised who was behind the mysterious disappearances of his best scotch every school holiday. He probably did, which was yet another example of his exemplary techniques in child rearing.  
  
“Come dance,” begged Stefano, appearing beside him like a sweaty sprite, his hair glued to his head and his eyes luminous. Draco was almost persuaded, until he registered the song Stefano wanted him to dance to, and to which Stefano had already begun jigging in time.  
  
“No, thanks,” said Draco. Stefano shrugged and was gone again in a flash. He inveigled his way into a crowd of happily plastered people, all of whom were Crazy Frogging all over the place.  
  
“This,” pronounced Alexandre, in tones of deepest disdain, “is disgusting.”  
  
Draco glanced around to see which of the numerous offending articles might have caught Alexandre’s attention: the décor, to which 'lurid' was the only fitting adjective, given the amount of fake palm trees; the people, who appeared to be too poor to afford enough clothing between them; the dancing, which might as well have been horizontal; or the nearest couple -- two middle-aged men dressed in leather armlets, shorts and not much else.  
  
“This drink,” Alexandre elaborated. He pursed his lips as if someone were trying to force a spoon of cod-liver oil down his gullet. “It’s probably got more sugar in it than Coke. Are Muggles entirely stupid?”  
  
“Keep your voice down,” said Draco, with a smile for the bartender, who was clearly wondering what a Muggle was: animal, vegetable, mineral or in-crowd swearword. When the bartender was sufficiently flustered by Draco’s attentions to move away, Draco scooted his stool closer to Alexandre’s and hissed in his ear, “You’re the one who’s stupid, breaking security like that! Don’t you realise how strict the British Ministry is about doing magic in front of Muggles?”  
  
“I wasn’t doing any,” retorted Alexandre, but he looked guilty.  
  
“You were using words that might arouse their suspicions, and that’s just as bad,” said Draco. “Clearly you haven’t been doing enough business with your Muggle Relations Department.”  
  
“I’m in Mag -- in Transport,” said Alexandre, after a pause to think. “It’s in an entirely different _arrondissement_.”  
  
“How lovely,” cooed Draco. He took a large sip of his cocktail and wiped his lips with the back of his hand, correctly guessing that the combined force of these two disgusting actions upon Alexandre would be greater than one alone. Alexandre recoiled slightly.   
  
“You still haven’t told us why you’re here.” Alexandre smoothed down the fronts of Stefano’s jeans. They looked about as homely on him as they would on a shark, but there was no denying that he was very attractive all the same. If Stefano hadn’t been nearby, Draco would have been tempted. But there was no sense in stealing someone else’s apple pie if you had chocolate cake on your own plate.   
  
“I don’t intend to,” said Draco. “My business is my own. You followed me here on your own sufferance.”  
  
“And when your _business_ is concluded, will you be going back to Spain with my brother?”  
  
 _A good question_ , thought Draco, tugging a piece of hair out of his eye. He had gelled it into a tousled mess, as fashion dictated. He still thought Stefano’s dark wing of hair, and even Alexandre’s close crop, looked better, but there were some things that it was beyond even the power of magic to change. “I don’t know,” he said, feeling his skin prickle. “I think that may not be my decision.”  
  
“Good lord, you are a criminal.” Alexandre sounded amused. Draco shot him a baleful look and slid off his stool.   
  
“I’m going to find Stefano,” he announced. “You have a key to the hotel, yeah?”  
  
“Yeah,” said Alexandre, imitating Draco’s nasal pronunciation. Draco thought about knocking his cocktail into Alexandre’s lap, but decided to drink it instead. At least that would show that he fit into the scene, and not that he was a petty git, even though the latter was true and the former not.  
  
Stefano was indulging in some wild gyrations with an androgynous waif in Galliano, who looked all of twelve. After prying Stefano away, Draco dragged him behind a potted palm and kissed him till his brain tingled.   
  
“You’re keen,” said Stefano, his breathing laboured, and Draco shrugged.  
  
“Let’s just say you’re better company than your brother.”  
  
“Shall we go home? I’m tired,” suggested Stefano, tucking his hand companionably into Draco’s back jeans pocket.   
  
Draco had no objection.  
  
  
:: ::  
  
  
There were places in Knockturn Alley that sold ready-brewed Polyjuice Potion. Happily, they were also the sorts of places where a prospective patron could get away with long, dirty robes with huge cowls, clearly designed to hide a bad case of red eyes or an inconvenient snout. In fact, such attire was very nearly a requirement. After all, if you came to buy illegal potions and sundry other items wearing spotless, neatly pressed robes, you were _clearly_ up to something.  
  
Draco tugged the hems of his robes further down over his fingers. He’d dragged his nails through the dirt in one of the hotel’s houseplants prior to leaving. The fullness under his fingernails felt new and uncomfortable, but he felt that overall it added up to a more convincing image. He’d thought it best to Apparate straight to the Leaky Cauldron, however. Muggles were slightly less accepting of alternative modes of apparel -- clean or otherwise -- than were their magical counterparts.  
  
Tom was still the barman at the dilapidated pub. It gave Draco a peculiar feeling in his gut to see the first of many familiar things, which would be either the same or impossibly different. He didn’t give himself time to indulge in it, though, and hurried through to the back alley without even acknowledging the wizened old man. A tiny thread of thought insinuated into the back of his brain: he would soon know if anyone he’d once called a friend was still alive.   
  
He wasn’t all that knowledgeable about Knockturn Alley, despite the fact that his father had carried out many a business deal within its pleasant surrounds. Fortunately the potion shop -- it had no more grand title than that, because those that needed it knew what it was without being told -- was near Diagon Alley, being in greater use than the more esoteric emporiums.   
  
Within a very short time Draco, with the aid of a bag of Galleons converted by Alexandre on a truncated trip to the Gringotts branch in Diagon Alley, had in his possession a goodish quantity of Polyjuice Potion. He hadn’t been sure how much he’d need, so he’d bought away and above his expectations. Now he needed to find a private place for the transformation and he thought he had the very location: a tiny tavern at the meeting of Alleys Knockturn and Blackweather, much favoured by prostitutes on cold nights and virtually deserted by day.  
  
It was then that his gaze happened to be dazzled by a sudden burst of hot sunlight. In turning his head to blink his eyes clear, Draco caught sight none other than Hermione Granger. She held an infant in her arms who was _still_ bawling, Draco noted with malicious amusement. She trailed another chubby child of indeterminate sex by dint of her robe skirt, which was affixed to its wrist.   
  
Granger stopped abruptly in the street and turned her head back. Draco had the perfect chance to study her, if that was his idea of a good time. It wasn’t, so all he took in was that her face was quite drawn and her mouth down-turned. Presumably she hadn’t been able to find the book she wanted at Flourish and Blotts.  
  
“Cormac!” she called, her voice shrill. “Cormac, please do hurry up! Matilda needs the little girl’s room.”  
  
A man hove into sight. Given that he was dragging two howling children who sported masses of frizzy blonde hair, he couldn’t but be Granger’s husband -- that, or a most unfortunate nanny.   
  
Although of course her name wouldn’t be Granger any longer; and it seemed so pointless to call her ‘Mudblood’ after the low types Draco had been driven to consort with, that he hardly knew what to call her.  
  
“God, Hermione,” the man panted. He ripped his hand from one child’s grip to mop his glistening brow. The little boy wailed all the louder at the deprivation, which clearly did nothing for the man’s temper. “You do nag a man. And these two haven’t shut up for an hour straight, demanding bloody ice cream and God knows what -- must take after you.”  
  
“Please don’t swear in front of the children,” hissed Granger. “And where is Angus?”  
  
“Here, Mum.” A solemn child emerged from behind his father’s robes and blinked in a manner more suited to an owl than a human being. He was struggling under the weight of a bag of books that almost equalled him in height. Granger shot her husband a filthy look and snatched up the bag, losing hold of her other child in the process.   
  
Draco reflected that for a girl who, despite her deficiencies of blood, had been quite intelligent, it was a surprise that she’d never come across the concept of ‘birth control.'  
  
Four of the children set up a crying chorus -- all but Angus, who looked impatient but accustomed to their behaviour. Cormac scooped up two of the children and administered sound slaps on their curly heads, which shocked them into silence. Granger pressed her lips into thin lines of chalk at this, but said nothing. Cormac strode on with his two captives in hand.   
  
Angus knelt to soothe his sibling, who had stuffed some of Granger’s robe into its drooling mouth in search of comfort. Angus managed to coax it away and hoisted the bag of books on to his shoulder as well, for in rocking the baby Granger seemed to have forgotten about it.  
  
Draco leaned out of the alley entrance in order to watch the miserable party leave. Angus’ charge caught sight of him and set to roaring -- a little in fear and a lot in want of attention paid it, if Draco was any judge. Angus noticed Draco as well. Despite what Draco was sure was his at least mildly terrifying aspect, Angus did nothing but send Draco an exasperated look as he popped a boiled sweet into the cavernous mouth of his sibling.  
  
Draco put them out of his mind with ease as he meandered down to the narrow, winding end of Knockturn Alley. He had taken Polyjuice Potion once before, against his will, and did not look back on the event as one of his choicest memories. Still, needs must if the devil rides. Draco just wasn’t sure who the devil was any more.  
  
  
:: ::  
  
  
“Name and business?” recited the receptionist, twirling her quill. It was a feat of considerable skill, given the length of her shiny purple fingernails.  
  
“Michel Rodriguez,” lied Draco. He ran his hands through his -- Stefano’s -- silky black hair and marvelled at its lightweight texture. It felt so different when it was on his own head. “Oh -- I’m an reporter for a Spanish newspaper. I’m here to interview Harry Potter.”  
  
The receptionist emitted a sceptical noise. It sounded like a squirrel being squashed to death in a concertina. “Well, you can go on up, but I doubt you’ll get to interview him. Room twenty-four, next the Closed Ward on floor three. He doesn’t see many people, and security’s rather high.”  
  
“Really? Why?” Draco affected astonishment, although he knew what her answer would be.  
  
“Oh, there are still a lot of horrible people who resent his defeating You-Know-Who,” said the receptionist, sounding as if she couldn’t have come up with a more tedious topic if she tried. “And of course there are your average crazies. Next!”  
  
Draco climbed the stairs, feeling as if someone were adding lead weights to his feet with every step. The cheap spiral-bound notebook, which he’d bought in the Heathrow branch of W.H. Smith, dug into the flesh of his palm like a crown of thorns.   
  
When he reached the Closed Ward level, he saw that it was indeed crowded. There were about five reporters, judging from their scowls and acid green quills; a few alert-looking wizards in dove-coloured robes; and the inevitable Weasleys, who were probably on shifts. Draco didn’t see any he recognised, for which he was grateful.   
  
The mirror told him that he was a tall, young and extraordinarily handsome Spanish man, but he knew that inside he was still a skinny and not particularly attractive Englishman. He was sure that someone would somehow see that and arrest him, although he had taken pains to pour three doses of Polyjuice into a Butterbeer bottle and enchant the same to look like light brown liquid.  
  
He sidled up to a likely looking reporter who had a Muggle trilby hat on backwards, in addition to tartan robes with leather patches sewn on the elbows.   
  
“What’s the lowdown on Potter?” asked Draco, not in a carrying whisper but in quiet tones. He smiled disarmingly at one of the dove-coloured witches, who blushed and looked away.  
  
“Eh?” said the reporter, sounding irritable. “I’m expecting my four o’clock relief. We’ve been waiting here round the clock in case the great Potter should chance to allow us an interview, but nothing doing.”  
  
“Nothing?” Draco was a little dismayed. Potter had been such a glory-hog when he was younger. Draco had been counting on the fact that Potter would be holding interviews at every possible interval. Perhaps he was still tired, although that had never seemed to hinder him before.  
  
“Nope. Oh, at some time every day Potter gets impatient and lets someone in to ask _one_ question, if you don’t mind, but he keeps saying he wishes everyone would go home and leave him alone.” The reporter adjusted his hat with a cough that managed to sound as exasperated as its creator. “I’m the _Prophet_ ’s current affairs reporter, but for God’s sake, I reckon this story should be human interest. It’s Rita Skeeter’s dream.”  
  
“Well, where is she?” asked Draco. “And for that matter, why’s Potter still in here? It’s been over a month since he woke up, hasn’t it?”  
  
“One month, two weeks and three days, and that’s the question, innit?” said the reporter in deeply put-upon tones. “As for Rita, dead people don’t make for good reporters, do they? Mind, you wouldn’t know, being foreign and all.” He expectorated a number of hacking noises, which sounded like the dying croak of a vulture. Draco realised after a moment’s consideration that the man was laughing.  
  
Draco sidled up to the young witch in dove-grey robes. She was an Auror; not only her uniform but her nervous, blushing, nail-chewing manner gave her away. She was, in fact, the perfect poster girl for the British Aurors. No one looking at her would ever imagine that she fronted a crack team of wizards, ninety percent responsible for dismantling of the Dark Lord’s regime after his demise.   
  
“Hi,” said Draco. He clasped his hands behind his back to hide his crossed fingers and discovered, to his delight, that a bashful blush came to his cheeks without effort. In his own skin, Draco never blushed except in rage. But he’d always noticed that it was one of Stefano’s most charming assets and he intended to use it to full advantage now that he had it.  
  
“Hello,” she replied. Her own blush deepened to a blotchy flush, so that her face closely resembled a diseased apple.   
  
Draco inched closer and attempted a trick with which Stefano enjoyed a lot of success. It involved his lips, his forefinger, a certain cast to his hip and, within subsequent minutes, Draco dragging him off somewhere private. Draco hadn’t the least interest in taking this dumpling girl to bed, but he was correct in thinking that the appearance of such an intention was enough to attract her attention.  
  
“What’s your name?” she whispered, after a good minute and a half of shuffling about.   
  
Draco was grateful for his assumed timidity, for it covered the second’s frantic recall of what name he’d chosen this time. “Michel Rodriguez,” he remembered, in the nick of time.  
  
“I’m Rosaline Holt,” she replied. Draco managed not to roll his eyes -- for all that he was wearing Stefano’s perpetually alight face, surely some of his real boredom got through? -- and curved his lips instead. It had always been an action that required some thought, smiling. He had never understood how other people’s mouths could be so loose, moving almost of their own accord. When Draco smiled he really meant it. In this case, he really meant to use his new physical advantage to get into Potter’s room.  
  
“Are you a reporter?” she asked. Her fingers were pleating the cloth of her robes. It was not the best idea she’d ever had, for it tugged the material tight over her rotund belly. Draco would’ve asked her when the baby was due if he weren't so focused on getting her on his side.  
  
“From Spain,” said Draco, with a nod. He hadn’t even lied. “I’m here to see Harry Potter.” Well, that was true as well.   
  
“I’ll just check if he’s letting anyone in,” murmured Rosaline. Draco beamed at her, quirking his lips to one side, just as Stefano did when he was wheedling something. Draco hadn’t realised quite how much of a study he’d made of Stefano, but it was certainly coming in handy.  
  
Rosaline opened the door a crack and conferred with someone through it. She squeezed in a little further so that her head was poking in, leaving her body bulging outside like something that had been caught in a trap. Free of her gaze, Draco regarded her without pleasure. He really couldn’t understand what other men saw in women. They usually tended towards the squishy side and, even when they didn’t, there was something equally unappealing about the sinews on skinny women. Perhaps that explained why he’d only ever let Pansy touch him. Flat-chested and slim-hipped, she was practically a boy.  
  
Someone else pushed past Rosaline, a familiar someone with a stump in place of a leg and a fearsome ball where one eye should be. Draco shrank back, sure that the eye would see through his disguise to the ferret that quivered within. He wasn’t permitted to shrink very far, though, because Moody clasped his shoulder and tugged him forward. Draco stumbled with him; it was that or be dragged.  
  
“Potter’s giving you buggers another question, because you won’t go away,” growled Moody, flickering his magical eye over the small crowd. Draco, from under his arm, noticed that none of the reporters met Moody’s gaze. His friend in the trilby was edging away, casting glances over his shoulder for his replacement. Draco deduced that he wasn’t stupendously keen on getting the first-hand scoop. As for the rest, Moody had probably made them feel ashamed for hounding the Boy Who Lived -- as if he didn’t live for the attention!  
  
“Today we’re allowing this one,” added Moody. He shook Draco till his head snapped, just in case anyone hadn’t noticed his previous manhandling. “In you go, then,” he said to Draco, giving him a slight shove through the door. Draco, massaging his elbow, decided that Moody didn’t know his own strength.  
  
He didn’t have long to dwell on the pain, for Moody was ushering him through an antechamber where half-a-dozen Aurors were playing cards. They didn’t even make an effort to hide their activity; nor did they meet Draco’s eye, either to scorn or to swagger. If Draco had been a journalist in truth, he would have noted that -- they were so long in the tooth that they could no longer see the point in their assignment. _Mutiny in the ranks! Aurors kick up their heels at pointless protection of Potter!_  
  
Draco was absorbed in these pleasant thoughts when Moody gave him one final thrust, propelling him into a large, octagonal chamber that was as white as a ghost. Draco, dazzled by the sunlight pouring in the huge bay windows like molten beer, thought at first that Moody had got the wrong room. He had been in a couple of the modern Muggle cathedrals, the factories where they worshipped their metal god with tortured pieces of machinery. This looked a lot like that, a cross between a hospital and an exploded working diagram of a computer. In one corner, a lot of fancy silver instruments were whirring and being tended sporadically by yet more dove-grey people. In another was a huge table, piled high with parchments and books.   
  
The furthest corner from the door was bathed in light. Paper trails and shining cords covered the floor between Draco and it, but in that small space the floor was bare. Seeming forgotten by the room and the people in it, Harry Potter lay in a bed, his head turned to the glass of the windows.   
  
It was a good thing that Potter’s hair was so dark. The paleness of his skin bled into the glacier-coloured sheets, and he was so slight that the only impression his body made was a hinge in the giant-sized pillows. If it weren't for that and his shock of hair, which stood out like dribbles of spilled ink on ice, Draco wasn’t sure if he’d have spotted him at all. Potter was enclosed in his pool of quiet in the midst of all the activity as if in a cage.   
  
Draco had prepared himself for the old bitterness, the burn of rage on seeing Potter’s face once more in the flesh. He had cleared a space in his mind to hold it. It lay empty as he approached, step by step, and even his surprise at the space’s emptiness didn’t fill it.   
  
At his footfall Potter turned his head. Draco was disgusted at how animated his adversary’s face became. Truly he must be pining for attention, unlikely as the prospect was.   
  
Draco came to within a foot of the end of the bed and hovered, unsure as to the proper course of action. Should he conjure a chair? He couldn’t, anyway. Should he sit on the bed, the floor? Remain standing?  
  
Meanwhile, Potter had wriggled into a more upright position. There was stock of sweets on the shelf behind his bed, a broomstick propped up beside it. Potter’s arms looked wasted and there was a child’s pull-toy peeking out from under the slipped sheets. All this Draco noticed in the second before Potter spoke. His voice scratched.  
  
“Hello,” he said, sounding almost eager, “I’m Harry Potter,” as if anyone in England wouldn’t know that. “Moody said there was a foreign reporter today.”  
  
“Moody said that? That’s rather polite of him, isn’t it?” Draco's candour carried him away before he realised the folly of it -- admitting to knowing Moody! _Bad move, Malfoy_!   
  
But Potter just laughed. A sound so ludicrous that Draco had to pinch his own skin and remind himself that it was the colour of toffee, because there was simply no way that Potter would laugh in the presence of Draco Malfoy.  
  
“Actually, what he said was ‘a rum dark bugger,’” admitted Potter, “but Rosaline has control over picking the reporters, so there wasn’t anything he could do about it.” Draco gave himself an imaginary pat on the back. “So, what’s your name?”  
  
“Michel,” replied Draco without dropping a beat. He’d better take care not to mention that name to Stefano or Alexandre, now that it was coming so smoothly to his tongue. “Rodriguez, from the Spanish branch of the _Daily Prophet_. We’re run mainly for English wizards living in Spain.” He flicked his fringe back, hoping his awkward action didn’t mar his glib words. He wasn’t used to having such silky, sliding hair. His real hair stuck out from his head a little, like taped-down colourless candyfloss, but it never went in his eyes. It was too light for that.  
  
“Are there many English wizards in Spain?” asked Potter, his eyes bright. They were about the only thing that were; the rest of his body looked faded, like it had been left out in the sun for too long. His pyjamas were short, pulling back on wrists that put Draco in mind of the elongated bones of some prehistoric bird, and the blue stripe was only one shade darker than the white.   
  
“Oh, plenty,” said Draco, adjusting his notebook, “hundreds.” For all he knew there might be; Alexandre seemed to have contacts there. But he didn’t say plenty of wizards, or hundreds of Englishmen. That’s what people didn’t understand about lying. Most of the time, you didn’t even have to do it.  
  
“I’m sorry.” Potter stared at his feet. “There’s a chair there, usually, but I think one of the researchers stole it. Peter!” he called, his voice a breathless squawk, but Peter was obviously used to it.   
  
Peter, when he approached, turned out to be an attractive middle-aged wizard with salt-and-pepper hair. His trim dove-grey robes suited him a lot better than they did Rosaline, and Draco stared at him thoughtfully as Potter sorted out the seating arrangements.   
  
“Moody says only one question per day,” explained Potter, when Draco was seated. He sounded genuinely apologetic, but Draco was more interested in the sprinkling of colour that had settled on Potter’s cheeks like pink flour. He leaned back in Peter’s chair, wondering if there were other chairs he could have been sitting in. After all, there was a nucleus of witches talking in loud voices a good ten yards nearer to Potter than Peter had been and, behind the witches, a stack of rickety stools. Draco didn’t mind, though. The chair was warm and Peter’s baking-bread aftershave lingered as well.   
  
“So I’ve heard.” Draco unclipped his pen to further the pretence of note-taking. If Potter wanted to blame Moody for his own attention-seeking that was none of Draco’s business. Plus, it wouldn’t take much to make him despise Potter once more, even though the place in Draco’s mind marked out for Potter-hate was still curiously blank.  
  
“Don’t you have a Quick-Quotes quill?” Potter looked askance at the ballpoint that Draco had nicked from the hotel. Potter’s fingers were spread out to their fullest extent on the part of the bedspread that covered his knees. They looked like two dead starfish. Twins. Except the forefinger on the left was longer than the one on the right. Not identical twins, then.  
  
Draco sometimes thought he really should have been a journalist. His brain, when in panic mode, sucked in details like there was going to be an Inquisition afterwards. “No,” he said slowly, still thinking the words as they erupted, “I prefer to have control over what I’m writing. My own opinion’s the best, after all.”   
  
Potter, he realised, was actually falling for it, for a cheerful expression appeared on his face like a dropping curtain.   
  
“Besides,” added Draco, arching his eyebrows, “even a Quick-Quotes won’t get much out of one question.”  
  
Potter laughed then, and Draco relaxed. He was safe for the moment.   
  
“I think they’re going to let me do a full interview when I’m stronger.” Potter pulled a face -- whether at the prospect or at his current weakness, Draco couldn’t tell.   
  
“You should hold a press conference,” suggested Draco, “then I could come.”  
  
He watched, startled, as the flecks of colour on Potter’s cheeks coalesced into a full-blown blush. He’d truly underestimated the power of wearing Stefano’s face. The incongruity struck him: he was a twenty-five year old borrowing the body of a seventeen-year old, and Potter was a seventeen-year-old woken up in the body of a twenty-five year old.   
  
“What’s a press conference?” Potter wanted to know, sinking back on the pillow and turning his face to the leaves at the window. His pyjama shirt stood upright, giving Draco ample view of how Potter’s blush had spread down on to his thin chest.   
  
Draco tried to judge how much control he’d had over his body at seventeen, and seemed to remember having very little indeed. Although Potter was eight years older than that, it seemed to make no difference. Age was truly a state of mind. In Potter’s case, it was in a very embarrassing state, one that wanted a cold shower quite badly. Draco turned his own face away, out of a show of politeness but really to bite his lip in glee.   
  
“It’s a big meeting, held by a celebrity,” explained Draco, to his fingernails, “to which he -- or she -- invites a whole bunch of journalists and reporters and photographers, and answers their questions. Very popular with Muggles. I believe they invented celebrities just to accommodate them.”  
  
“I’m not a celebrity,” said Potter. His voice was a very quiet rasp now.   
  
“No, you’re a hero,” Draco countered. He hoped the sarcasm in his voice would be somehow filtered by the prettiness of the mouth that was saying it. “That’s twice as good.”  
  
Potter sent him a sharp look, which Draco defused by smiling. Stefano had a persuasive smile -- and persuasive hands, although Potter would be very lucky indeed if he suffered that particular brand of persuasion.  
  
“Well, your question?” said Potter. “I really don’t have anything interesting to say, you know. Hermione and Ron have brought me some old papers, and everything that happened back then was in them. Everything anyone could possibly want to know about me.”  
  
“What you ate for breakfast,” supplied Draco, wishing he’d had access to some of these papers. Then again, wherever he’d been at the time -- Munich, Marseilles, Mukachevo, some city beginning with an M, anyway -- had been short on up-to-date Chosen One resumes.   
  
“Yup,” said Potter. Draco gave a startled snicker. “Honestly -- it was _Witch Weekly_ , I think. Hermione agreed to do a question and answer by owl post. She said what colour boxers I wore were no one’s business but my own, though.”  
  
“She didn’t know,” guessed Draco.  
  
“Got it in one,” said Potter, with a grin. “And it would have been beneath Hermione to check the underwear of an unconscious invalid, even if she had wanted to satisfy those poor old maids.”  
  
“Don’t forget the dirty old men,” Draco couldn’t resist adding. Potter went all wide-eyed for a minute, then decided to mask his discomfort with a rather lopsided smile.   
  
“Either way,” he said, and hurried on with, “Just so you don’t waste the question, I don’t know why I’m here or when I’m getting out, nor do I have any plans to marry soon, and I can’t remember a thing from when I was asleep. I woke up thinking it was maybe a few days after Voldemort died, and the first thing I saw was Hermione screeching, ‘He’s awake!’ with a baby in her arms.”  
  
“A shock,” said Draco, because he thought that could very well have been the most traumatic thing Potter had seen since the business end of the Dark Lord’s wand.  
  
“You can say that again.” Potter was grinning. His hands were no longer splayed on his legs, but active; one moment he was biting a hangnail, the next tugging down his pyjamas. “I mean, I thought that was the first! Instead he’s just the latest in a series!”  
  
“And Ron, too,” said Draco. It stuck in his craw to say Weasley’s name without some kind of nasty rejoinder. Yet, he was gaining a perverse enjoyment from watching and listening to Potter, as if he’d not only stolen a body but the place of one of Potter’s friends as well. A place he must have even wanted once, although he couldn't think why.   
  
Draco quickly uncapped his Butterbeer bottle and swigged from it, wiping his hand over his mouth to cover his shudder at the astringent taste. Potter was too busy throwing his eyes up to heaven to notice.  
  
“Two at once!” he was saying, as Draco tuned back into Station Potter. “I know twins run in the Weasley family, but it’s so weird to have Ron as a _dad_. Hermione was always mothering us, but Ron …” He trailed off, shaking his head.   
  
Draco would have liked to probe Potter's opinion on the lack of nuptials between his best friends, the Mudblood and the blood traitor, but that would have been a waste of questions to end all waste. Draco didn’t care anyway.  
  
“So.” Draco opened his notebook in the middle to hide the fact that every page was a brother in freshness and emptiness. “My question.”  
  
Potter nodded, his tongue flicking out to dampen his lips. Draco divined, all of a sudden, that Potter was nervous, a spectacular emotion coming from him. It made Draco angry -- after all, this was foolhardy, brash, devil-may-care Potter, he wasn’t _allowed_ to be nervous -- but he swallowed it down to make room for, “Dumbledore.”  
  
“What about him?” Potter was instantly alert, pain that must have still been fresh to him welling behind eyes that the childish glasses made so ludicrously large.   
  
Draco shrugged. “What are you going to do about him?”  
  
Potter’s shoulders hunched, the collar of his pyjamas sweeping around his narrow neck like a hula hoop. _He should get more_ , thought Draco, _a pair that fits_. Potter had both lost weight and grown, however he managed it, and that sort of behaviour never worked wonders for fashion.   
  
Draco supposed that this was the interval where one should have felt sympathy for Potter, if one was in the way of feeling that sort of rot.  
  
“As soon as I’m ready,” said Potter, sliding his clenched hands under the bedclothes, “Severus Snape is going to stand trial for his murder.”  
  
Draco spread his fingers in a gesture of supplication. He was begging for alms, because he’d used up his question quota. Where is Severus Snape, what have you got to do with the trial, who are the witnesses, are there any left alive to tell the tale? Although Draco hoped they were dead; he hadn’t been as afraid of anyone as he was afraid of Fenrir Greyback.   
  
Potter took a deep, shuddering breath. He stared hungrily out of the window, with an expression that suggested he’d like to fall out of it. Or through it. “When I’m ready,” he repeated.   
  
“Well, that will satisfy our readers.” Draco let his impatience snap his words. “They’re a bit more voracious than _that_.”  
  
Potter sent him a cold look. Perhaps it was just the way his glasses refracted his gaze, but it urged Draco to scramble to his feet and take to his heels. This he did not do, but he did stand up.  
  
“Thank you,” he added, his voice formal. He had nothing he wanted to thank Potter for, that was why he didn’t say his name. But he was thankful for some things. Oxygen, and not being caught yet, and sex, and that he seemed to have got away with this ruse.  
  
He turned to leave, plucking his robe with two fingers in a way that made it twirl around his feet. Snape had been fond of that trick, although few people cared to copy it.  
  
“Wait,” said Potter.   
  
Draco froze. Around him, the sounds of the room ebbed and flowed, like waves. There was a metallic clicking, the chink of mugs against wood, crackling paper, murmuring voices, scuffling feet -- he even thought he could pick out a strain from the antechamber, someone crowing in delight over their winning hand. At Exploding Snap, probably. There was nothing of Potter there, nothing he could claim to own. He didn’t even make the bed squeak.  
  
An emotion tried to fill the space Draco had kept clear for Potter, but Potter’s own words chased it away.  
  
“Come back tomorrow,” said Potter, “and you can ask another question.”  
  
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

Draco passed Granger and brood, although sine patre, as he made his way through the antechamber. She was rather hard to miss, given the collective racket her spawn were making -- this one screaming in her arms, another demanding sweeties at the very top of her voice, yet another sobbing none too quietly into Granger’s robes.   
  
Draco thought she must have lost the non-crying one, Angus. Or else he’d been zoomed up into a vale of tears as well and Draco was just not noticing him because of the distaste he felt for weeping children. However, as Draco paused to stow his still-empty notebook in the pocket of his robes, he spotted Angus herding two sobbing girls after his mother.  
  
After years of magically working to keep himself clean and desirable, Draco had become a dab hand at altering clothes. He was still wearing the grubby werewolf’s pelt that he’d had on when he first encountered Angus, but two or three spells in between had turned it laundry-fresh white -- the better to set off Stefano’s warm skin -- neatened the hems and tightened the seams, so that it enhanced rather than concealed. If one was searching for links between the before and after garments, there were clues: the overlarge hood, the old-fashioned cut, the notched belt. But who was looking?  
  
Draco was almost sure the same child who’d screamed in fright before did it again on catching sight of Draco for the second time, although he entertained grave doubts that she recognised him. If she had -- through eyes that were pink and creased like a mouse baby’s from uninterrupted sobs -- then it would be a feat worth hailing and Draco would shake her hand.   
  
Angus looked about with a weary expression, tugging the child’s hand a little. His eyes lit upon Draco as the precursor of his augmented trouble and then narrowed. They swept over Draco from head to foot, much as the Muggle security guard had done at Heathrow with a little machine when Draco had forgotten to take his watch off.   
  
Draco was hardly desirous of the attentions of a small child and he tended towards suspicion against children in general. He thought they were manipulative, mean-minded little bastards, who used a built-in need for control and a lack of decorum to their fullest extent. After all, he remembered his own childhood quite well.   
  
Angus, although heretofore having displayed the patience of a saint three times his age, was still a kid. A kid who was giving Draco a look that suggested he was made of dirty see-through plastic. The other child was still whimpering in that glassy-eyed way that was so much more irritating than a full-blown tantrum.  
  
Angus deposited the child somewhere in Granger’s skirts, a moment before she swept into the sickroom. Draco presumed she was on her way to visit Potter, although from what he knew of her she would probably check in with the researchers first. ( _Researching what_? a voice from the back of his brain asked. _Magic can cure broken bones and ailments in an instant. Why’s Potter still in there? Not that we mind._ )  
  
The next thing Draco knew, his robe was taken in hand by a small and determined fist and was being tugged in such a way that Draco knew he’d have to bend down, or the fist would keep tugging all day and all night. For someone so very small, Angus gave off an aura of being a good deal bigger.  
  
“What?” snapped Draco, having tilted slightly, like corn in a gale. He wasn’t disposed to be courteous: not to children in general, not to children sprung from Granger’s womb, and really not when he’d had to reign himself in from revealing his true feelings towards Potter for the last three quarters of an hour. Self-denial gave Draco a headache.  
  
“Who’re you?” asked Angus. Draco hadn’t seen his mouth move, but he wouldn’t put it past him to be a ventriloquist.  
  
“Michel Rodriguez, reporter for the world news section of the Spanish branch of the _Daily Prophet_ ,” Draco reeled off. He longed to pry Angus off him, but knew that there were too many Aurors -- _right next to him, in the same room! Why hadn’t he set off Polyjuice Detectors or something?_ \-- nearby to get away with it.   
  
“Really?” Angus screwed up his eyes, as if he were a myopic trying to see a blackboard without his spectacles. Draco felt an unpleasant tickling sensation behind his ears, like a thousand butterflies had just nested there.  
  
“Yeah,” said Draco, feeling defensive.   
  
Who was this kid, to question his credentials when no one else did? Although they should have. They should have checked him out, to see whether he wasn’t a nutcase fan posing as a reporter, or a potential murderer. Although who would want to murder Potter, now, really, except for star-struck loonies? And Severus Snape -- who was clearly still alive -- whoever else was left out of the Death Eater elite ... and Draco Malfoy.   
  
They wouldn’t have expected Draco Malfoy to waltz in to the very room where Potter was recuperating (from what? A sleep overdose?), bold as brass, because it spelled a death warrant -- his own. Which was why, presumably, they didn’t catch him when he did just that.  
  
Draco felt that he wasn’t out of the fire yet and that he shouldn’t count his chickens before they were hatched, two peasant sayings that Pansy used to parrot like the revealed wisdom of the ages. He thought they made her sound like an old woman, or, when he was feeling vindictive and because that was his direst insult at the time, a _Muggle_ old woman. He’d since learned that there were worse things to be than a Muggle, an old woman, or both.  
  
Therefore he didn’t want to blow his cover, or have it blown for him by too much interest on the part of this whey-faced, shapeless child. At least Angus hadn’t inherited his mother’s hair. His was as colourless and flat as sand, although he had startlingly black eyebrows.   
  
“Speak some Spanish,” demanded Angus. Draco’s eyebrows went up and Angus’ down, and he tempered his request with a “Please. I like to hear different languages.”  
  
Draco thought: _I’ll bet. Your parents look like they come from different planets, ones at war with each other_. Out loud he gabbled, “ _Metetelo por el culo, doblow_ ,” which he’d read on the back of a toilet stall one night when he’d been picked up in a bar. Stefano had never spoken much Spanish in front of him, apart from the odd, ironic-sounding ' _por favor_.'  
  
“What’s that mean?” asked Angus.  
  
Draco met him, stare for stare. A sudden image flashed in his mind, of knights, jousting, the stomach-curdling crack of wood on wood as their lances engaged. “You’re the language buff around here. You figure it out. Ask your mother.”  
  
“I don’t ask my _mother_.” Angus' voice was laced with scorn. “I find things out for myself.”  
  
“A golden opportunity, then,” said Draco. He felt Angus’ grip loosening and took the opportunity to whip his robes away. “I bid you good day.”  
  
He didn’t look back at Angus, but one of the dove-grey Aurors broke into a smile. It cut across his wrinkles like a hacksaw. “Smart little lad, that,” he said, in a West Counties burr. “Sharp as a tack.”  
  
“A tack,” agreed Draco. He brushed his robes back from his legs and hurried, trying to look as if he had pressing business elsewhere and not as if he were running away from a little boy.  
  
Outside the door, one of the reporters called, “Get anything outta him?”  
  
Draco smirked. “Wears green boxers.” He caught a glimpse when Potter was bouncing about, eager as puppy with a licking fetish, and in fact they were red.   
  
Sometimes an outright lie was a balm for the soul.   
  
The reporters gave an appreciative whoop, and more than one of them shook out his Quick-Quotes Quill.  
  
Draco caught sight of Rosaline, standing off to the side and shredding her robes between her fingers like wet tissue. He repressed a sigh, wondering if she was as completely ignorant as she appeared to be. However, she’d thrown her bread on the waters, expecting prompt return of cake. Later, of course, she would be punished for letting Draco Malfoy slip through the net. That thought might be enough to get him through the torture of seducing her.   
  
Draco reassembled his robes, settling and primping them and earning himself more than one sly look from the two male Aurors guarding the door. Draco had heard that they were trained in spotting the quirks and inconsistencies that gave people away. Poor Rosaline, although she no doubt underwent the same training, had already proved herself a sloppy judge of character and also of sexual proclivities. She was too smitten. That was the mistake they never realised they were making, when they allowed witches to become Aurors. Draco was willing to bet he could seduce half of those females after him, and convince the other half that he had repented of his evil ways. In his experience, women had always been bad at separating sex from emotions.  
  
Before he went over to Rosaline, he summoned up an image that would see him through the next few hours. Stefano kissing someone else. Stefano and another boy. Draco had always been a voyeur first and participant afterwards. Perhaps, in honour of firsts, Stefano and Marcus Flint? He didn’t like the juxtaposition of Stefano’s dark slightness with Marcus’ blonde brutality, though. Another -- nameless but dark-haired -- boy, to make a pair.  
  
Thus bolstered, Draco went forward to ask Rosaline what time she knocked off.  
  
  
:: ::  
  
  
Draco leaned out of the window, gulping in deep, reassuring breaths of polluted air. In the sagging bed, Rosaline rolled over like a beached whale, making smacking noises with her mouth. Draco looked over fearfully, but she wasn’t awake, merely dreaming. A disgusting thought, but now her dreams might involve _him_.   
  
Draco wrapped his arms around his body and pinched the skin under his naked ribs: a very literal way of getting a grip of himself. He was out of practice with women, most especially with young ones. Rosaline was twenty-one. The last time a woman had bought him, she’d been forty if she was a day, although she laid claim to the age of thirty-two. Her jowls had sagged as if her face, like her breasts, was melting. She’d wanted to pretend to be a man, however. She hadn’t wanted him to look at her poached egg face, in which craving Draco had wholeheartedly obliged her.  
  
Rosaline, on the other hand, had wanted to touch. Surprisingly, given the undercooked appearance of her body, she’d wanted the lights on. Draco, even with Stefano, even with Achilles and Paul and Nat, had preferred the lights out, with a kinder illumination allowed in from streetlights, moons or bathrooms. Above all, Rosaline had wanted to _share_. Sex with eyes wide open when it was all Draco could do to hold on to a desirable image by squeezing them shut, so that he could get through the episode at all.  
  
Draco had undressed himself, and then Rosaline; a calculated move, so she wouldn’t touch him too much and so he knew now where all his clothes were. He scooped them off the floor, the Butterbeer bottle last, then had an inspiration.   
  
Rosaline was three sizes larger than him. Her wardrobe had rack upon rack of tent-like robes, either navy or black -- a sensible choice, Draco commended her -- or dove-grey. She would never miss one, and Draco was careful to pick a robe from the very back of the wardrobe, where she’d be keeping the things into which she could no longer fit.  
  
The night was young. Draco was at the most gorgeous he’d ever been, and the most desperate. He wasn't about to leave a magical signature in Rosaline's flat. He wouldn’t survive till he got back to the hotel and Stefano, because changing faces in the middle of a Muggle street was not to be recommended. He couldn’t Apparate either, because Stefano coming face to face with his own face would be even less well received.   
  
Draco needed to rid his skin of the imprint of Rosaline’s touches, and the best way he knew how was to cover them with someone else’s. He was running close to being strapped for cash, the aeroplane ticket having sapped his resources.   
  
Besides, the corner of Blackweather Alley was his old stomping-ground. It really was a night of recalling firsts, he reflected, pulling Rosaline’s robes over his bare back and making a note to spell away the crushed-rose-petals scent. Now that Hogwarts was impenetrable and Malfoy Manor burnt to the ground, Blackweather Alley was the closest he had to going home.  
  
  
:: ::  
  
  
Draco didn’t make it back to the hotel that night. Rather, he didn’t make it back to the hotel in which he was sharing a suite with Stefano and Alexandre. There were several small establishments in Blackweather Alley that had opened for the sole purpose of catching the passing trade, and very passing it was too, sometimes passing right out of the window in the middle of the night.  
  
Draco didn’t bother with this, one of his old tricks. He waited until his companion, who looked rather like Potter’s friend Peter -- only seedier -- woke up, and earned enough to buy a new wardrobe. It had been his intention since he caught sight of himself in a plate glass window the night before. Black suited Stefano well enough, although it did not complement him so well as white, but it drained Draco of all colour. He’d always felt like a wrung-out washcloth in his Hogwarts robes.   
  
Draco did not usually take drunks, but that night he had broken with a well-established pattern and gone for a complete sot who didn’t notice in the morning that he had a different man in the bed from the night before. He looked a little startled at seeing a man there at all, in fact. However, he soon reconciled himself to the agreeable fact that hands and mouths were pretty much the same, regardless of their gender.  
  
Draco arrived back at Stefano’s hotel at lunchtime, cheerful and bearing three packages of robes and two bottles of Polyjuice. He was unprepared for the greeting he received. Alexandre was waiting at the reception desk; or so Draco thought, but in fact he was checking with the receptionist to see if he, Draco, had arrived. When he caught sight of Draco, his mouth flattened into an equals symbol.  
  
“Where _were_ you? We were worried sick.”   
  
His fingers were pinching on Draco’s elbow, but his words were so ridiculous Draco had to prevent himself laughing. “What do you mean? I was out. I went shopping this morning, as it happens.”  
  
“You didn’t tell Stefano you were going!” Alexandre’s words were an accusation, but he kept his voice low, escorting Draco to the elevators by his elbow. _Is pinching shouting in Braille_? wondered Draco.   
  
“Well, no,” he drawled. “We aren’t attached at the hip. We’re boyfriends, not Siamese twins.”   
  
Alexandre made a disbelieving noise, but didn’t deign to comment. Draco turned his mind to his new robes. He needed them, of course; reporters, even purportedly Muggle-born ones, did not go to interview celebrities in fashionably frayed t-shirts and someone else’s jeans. However, he couldn’t shake the distasteful feeling that he was dressing up for Potter. Some of the robes were very fine ones. He should wear the others. Even though he’d bought the fine ones to suit Stefano, and the others to suit Draco.  
  
Alexandre gave him a look of steel, mimicking the shiny number plate on the room door. “I’m going in first,” he said, and Draco didn’t demand for it to be otherwise. “Then I’m making myself scarce, and you’d better put on a damn good show, do you understand?”  
  
Draco nodded. He felt a little better about Alexandre, in that he knew a show was all it was, but no less suspicious of him for it. Alexandre was wearing Stefano’s jeans again and, because Alexandre was taller and slimmer-hipped, they slid. Draco could appreciate an sexy bottom without particularly liking the person. He'd never realised that it was a talent before he'd had to do it for money.  
  
Draco left a suitable interval and deposited his purchases in the hall cupboard before announcing his arrival. What he saw in Stefano’s face, when it reared up from a burrow on the sofa, startled him. Stefano’s nose was red, his eyes swollen, and tears had marked blotchy runnels down his cheeks. _He’s a wimp_ , Draco told himself, horrified.   
  
Stefano stood up as Draco approached, finding his way blocked by an incredible number of occasional tables and floral arrangements. The cashmere blankets fell away, revealing Stefano to be clad in nothing but old grey boxers -- Draco’s own, he noted. Yet if it weren’t for a face which sorrow had made ugly, Stefano could pass for a creditable Botticelli angel.   
  
Draco willed Stefano to say nothing, to perhaps stride forward and kiss him and forget it. Even, in a wild chance, to understand. But he was only a boy, still; a boy in beauty, in energy and virility, but also in temperament. His lip wobbled when Draco came close enough to see it and he blurted, “Where were you? I was so worried. I missed you.”  
  
It was too like Alexandre’s speech, except for the last addendum. That, despite himself, was the one that melted Draco. Not much, but enough. _Just enough water around the ice-cube to grip it by_ , was what Draco thought later, when he went to fetch drinks. He needed brandy, not just to calm Stefano’s post-coital, uncustomary storm of tears, but also for himself, to survive them.  
  
In the end he didn’t make it up in time to go to St Mungo’s, which closed to visitors at four o’clock in the afternoon. Not to Granger or Weasley, he imagined; but he wasn't either one of them, and even with Polyjuice it would choke him to transform into them. On the other hand, he had cemented his story to Stefano, and thus to Alexandre. He gave the impression that he had a relative -- possibly a mother, possibly not -- whom he was visiting. Stefano didn’t probe; it was one of his best qualities.   
  
Potter, perhaps, would have taken umbrage at his non-appearance, Rosaline at his disappearance. Draco would have to win them over again. Draco didn’t doubt that it was possible, though. Potter was so raw, so green, Draco could seduce him if he had to. As for Rosaline, no one as good-looking as Stefano would ever look twice at her again; a little sackcloth and ashes and she would be in the bag once more. Neither prospect was tempting, but Draco had done worse than both.  
  
And maybe he wouldn't have to do either.  
  
  



	6. Chapter 6

“You’re going out today?” Stefano’s eyes begged him to say no, but Draco was tired of them for now. He wanted to use them himself.   
  
“You know I have to.” Draco dropped a perfunctory kiss on Stefano’s pouting mouth; any more and Stefano would drag him down into the bed, and he’d never find his way out of the maze of sheets in time.  
  
He met Alexandre in the vestibule. Lurking was the best word Draco could think of, although spying would run a close second. On what, though? Had Alexandre been in contact with the British Ministry? Did he suspect Draco of being who he was? Did he dream of turning Draco in, but fear his little brother’s reaction? Or were his misgivings more prosaic?   
  
Draco let none of his swimming thoughts show, instead smirking at Alexandre and blowing him a kiss. Alexandre jumped as if the kiss were a flame-thrower and darted into the bathroom. Draco shrugged and used the opportunity to Apparate to the Leaky Cauldron. He needed to be alone to summon up the required concentration.   
  
All of his new robes had deep hoods. No one paid him much notice, because hoods were too common for that. Draco gulped down the Polyjuice in yet another toilet stall. He was becoming more skilled at minimising the sounds he made. A Silencing Charm on his larynx didn’t go astray either. He kept his hood up coming out too, because beautiful young men attracted far too much attention -- even in such a frowsy, straight-as-a-boring-die concern as the Leaky Cauldron.  
  
Rosaline was not on duty when Draco arrived at the third floor of St Mungo’s. One of the guards from the first day was, however, and he sent Draco an appraising stare. Draco was willing to bet that the man was willing to lay bets on his sexuality now. Fifty-fifty either way. Draco pushed up the sleeves of his light blue robes, because he knew Stefano had shapely arms and he wanted to show them off.  
  
“I’d like to talk to Harry Potter.” He flashed a smile, knowing how well the whiter-than-white teeth looked against the dark skin. “I sort of have an appointment.”  
  
“You sort of missed your appointment, too,” said the man, but his mouth twitched. He also signalled inside, which Draco took as either a good sign or one that meant he was in imminent danger of being arrested.  
  
He was beckoned on. Moody scowled at him from a round of poker, but that could have just been his poker face, or even his normal face. He grunted at the Auror standing by the second door and he, in his turn, jerked his head at Draco. “You can go through.”  
  
Draco went through.  
  
The room hadn’t changed, although for some reason he’d expected it to. There were the same whirring machines, piles of paper, groups of earnest witches. The same crunching noise as he gingerly made his way across the floor. The bed was unaltered, as was the dent in the pillow, but it was quite empty.  
  
Draco's heart stopped for a full second. Potter was gone, dead, kidnapped, and no one had noticed. Draco gripped the bedstead for support, realising too late that it had wheels. It shot forward and crashed against the wall, making an almighty racket, and dragged Draco along with it.  
  
“You do like to make an entrance,” said Potter’s voice from somewhere in the ceiling. Draco opened a tentative eye and made a spirited attempt to extricate his legs from the arms of his robes.   
  
“You remind me of someone I knew in school,” added Potter.   
  
Draco saw that Potter was still in pyjamas, although mummified in a red dressing gown. Midnight blue or forest green or black would have suited him better, or at least made him look more interesting. But whoever did his shopping for him still clung to Gryffindor values, that much was clear. Potter had his arms crossed and was leaning against the wall, an insouciant posture that Draco knew of yore, but it didn’t hide the fact that Potter’s legs were trembling.  
  
 _Take him out now_! Draco’s back-brain urged. _Kick him in the knees, kick him in the head, he’s too weak to resist! Do it for your mother, do it for your father!_  
  
It sounded quite like the voice that had wanted him to kill Dumbledore, and for the same reasons. He hadn’t listened to it then. He didn't now.  
  
“Who?” he asked instead, when he’d recovered enough to realise that Potter was gazing at him in expectation, chewing his lip like gum.  
  
“I forget.” Potter sounded as vague as he’d used to be when called on in class. He usually knew the answer all the same, in Draco’s experience -- he just hadn’t wanted to share it.   
  
“I thought you’d gone.” One thing hadn’t changed: the damnable looseness Potter induced in Draco’s tongue. Why had he admitted that? Potter was probably in the toilet. Even heroes had to piss.  
  
“Funnily enough, I thought the same about you.” Potter groped along the wall and held out a hand to Draco. Draco scrambled up in time not to need it. One part of him refused to touch Potter; another didn’t want to be responsible for toppling him over like the frail leaf he was turning into. Draco had always been prouder of his vicious streak than any of his virtues.  
  
“I mean,” continued Potter, leaning against the glass, “I offered you more questions, which Moody nearly scalped me over, and the reporters nearly killed him over, and then you don’t even turn up.”  
  
“No,” agreed Draco. He looked at Potter doubtfully, forgetting to brush his hair out of his eyes. He kept on thinking he’d got glued-on candyfloss hair, which stayed out of the way. Being Stefano wasn’t all honey and roses.  
  
All at once Potter smiled. It was a huge smile, which dominated his face and changed it. Usually people’s faces became softer and more open when they smiled -- it was the reason why apes did it, after all -- but Potter’s face turned feral. Almost tigerish.  
  
The smile was gone too quickly to study it. Draco was just left with an abiding impression that Potter was pleased. The smile was infectious, like the best diseases, but Draco had never succumbed easily to any illness.   
  
“I suppose you were off doing something wildly exciting for the last three days,” said Potter, and now he sounded jealous. Draco made a noise of assent. Sex did tend to be wildly exciting to those who didn’t have a lot of it and even more so to those who’d had none. Potter certainly fell into the first category, if not into both.  
  
“So.” Potter climbed on to the bed again, but not into it. The sheets looked even more clinical and even less inviting now, with Potter as a red and black smudge in the middle of them.   
  
Draco was about to ask him why he didn’t buy something more cheerful, or at least get someone to buy it for him, before he realised that this would use up his question. The question game amused Potter, it seemed, and games had to have rules. Potter had always wanted other people to play by the rules, even though he himself had never done so.  
  
“You should get some purple pillowcases,” said Draco, in a tone of command and not query. He bestowed a stare of scrutiny upon the current pillow, which, while large enough to smother generations of young Granger babies, hadn’t shaken off the look of an obese marshmallow.  
  
“Don’t tell me, you’re an interior designer in your spare time,” laughed Potter. He clasped his hands around kneecaps that bulged bones even through two layers of cloth.   
  
“Yes, and a sensuous and godlike trombone player.” Draco reached around to test the squishiness of the pillows in question.  
  
Potter spluttered and squirmed away from Draco’s critical fingers, which was all to the good. It gave Draco more room for evaluation. “Why purple?” Potter wanted to know.  
  
“Because it’s the colour of sexual frustration,” Draco informed him, with a sweet smile. “You haven’t got any for, correct me if I’m wrong, eight years.”  
  
Potter stared at him for a minute. Draco held his breath but didn’t realise it until afterwards, when he severely reprimanded himself for such sensibilities. It didn’t matter to him what Potter thought. Potter’s _opinion_ did not matter.  
  
Then Potter burst out laughing. He laughed until his face creased up and he had to lean across the bed and beat his fists on the sterile white wool blanket to ease the stitch. Draco didn’t think sex was so all-fired glorious but he’d never found it hilarious either, and this show of mirth disturbed him. Perhaps eight years of being asleep and untouched had done something to Potter’s mind, which was only now being unleashed.   
  
“You’re right,” gasped Potter at last. “You’re absolutely right. Oh God, you’re going to tell on me now to the papers, aren’t you?”  
  
“No,” said Draco, mainly because he wasn’t from a paper but also because what was there to tell? Even Rita Skeeter wouldn’t expect someone in a coma to have a dramatic and colourful love-life.  
  
“I like you,” said Potter, upside down, looking up the wrong end of Draco’s nostrils. Draco, unnerved by this because even Stefano didn’t have gorgeous nostrils, moved back a little. At least it was Stefano’s face that Potter thought he liked and not Draco’s. _That_ would have been truly disturbing.  
  
“That’s nice,” he remembered to say at last. That was the kind of reply that bald statements merited, wasn’t it? Or was he meant to say ‘I like you too,’ or ‘Shut up, you great freak?’ Draco wasn’t sure. He’d never been told something like that before. He just assumed that people liked him, or that they didn’t. Doubt and uncertainty didn’t play any role in the proceedings.   
  
Potter grinned. Draco had a feeling that he was enjoying his discomfiture, perhaps as a little repayment. His opinion on Potter swung towards favourable for a quarter of a second.   
  
A chair was standing ready for Draco, although his earlier antics had toppled it to the floor. Draco righted it and sat down, bringing out his notebook and dusting it for the look of the thing. When he was through with the charade, he saw that Potter was spread-eagled across his bed, rummaging for something.   
  
When he sat up again, Potter’s hair was sticking up in all directions, like the spiky halos favoured by the more modern churches. His cheeks were pink again. This time it was the flush of effort and not -- anything else, Draco _really_ didn’t like to think of Potter lusting -- but it was without doubt very cute. He looked about ten years old and, thus, deserving of the adjective.  
  
“Here,” said Potter, his voice breathy. He pushed something warm and hard into Draco’s palm. Draco looked down and saw several Galleons there. He looked up in confusion. “I want you to bring me some pillowcases,” added Potter, “next time you come.”  
  
“So there’ll be a next time.” Draco kept his tone casual.  
  
“Yes, you’re quite right. I need some new pillowcases.”  
  
“And the questions?” Draco couldn’t help it. The words spilled out of him like a broken geyser.  
  
“Well, how many do you want?” asked Potter. “A thousand and one, like Scheherazade?”  
  
“A few less would suffice.” Draco fought not to fidget. He pushed the Galleons deep into his pocket, where they would not spill out by accident. “Perhaps, instead of numbers, we could say days? Two weeks?”  
  
“You won’t get very many, if you miss three days at a time.” Potter’s tone was parental, mild disapproval mixed with indulgence. Draco wasn’t stupid enough to miss the warning in it.  
  
“I won’t miss any days,” he said.  
  
“Well, then.” Potter seemed at a loss. He tugged at the belt of his dressing gown. “It’s always too hot or too cold in here,” he said, sounding plaintive. “They never get it right.”  
  
“Well, they don’t need to,” Draco pointed out. “They can go outside. Why can’t you?”  
  
“I don’t know,” said Potter, in dolorous tones. He pressed his nose against the window pane and laced the glass with his breath.   
  
“By tomorrow, find out,” Draco told him, “because I’m going to ask you again.”  
  
“Are you going already?” Potter’s eyes widened in alarm. Or something. Draco couldn’t bear to meet them for long, so he didn’t.  
  
“I have to go away and think about my questions,” he explained, to himself as well as to Potter. “I’ll stay for an hour tomorrow.”  
  
“Oh, good,” said Potter. Draco couldn't tell from two words if he was being sarcastic or not. He probably liked the audience, but resented what he had to do to keep it. A quick thought, but on reflection quite accurate, Draco decided later.  
  
“Won’t -- won’t Miss Granger and Mr Weasley visit you?” asked Draco, wanting to placate Potter as he would a keening dog.  
  
“Mrs McLaggen, you mean.” Potter breathed on the window again. “Yeah, she might be around. Ron’ll be busy, with the babies and the business, but he comes when he can.”  
  
“And why aren’t they married to each other, do you think?” asked Draco.   
  
“They haven’t told me that either,” said Potter, pulling a comical face. It was almost endearing, for all that Draco would have loved to slap him.  
  
“Potter,” he drawled, “snap out of it. You used to snoop around like nobody’s business -- so I read --” he breathed a sigh of relief, Potter hadn't noticed the slight break “-- but now you don’t even know about the most important thing in your best friends’ lives.” He leaned forward and snapped his fingers in front of Potter’s nose. “Your eyes are open, but you aren’t awake yet.”  
  
He didn’t bother to say goodbye or to look back. When he left he went straight to Whistbean's Wizarding Warehouse and bought two sets of bed clothes, including pillow cases -- in purple and scarlet -- costing exactly three times what Potter had given him.  
  



	7. Chapter 7

After a very short time, Draco decided that he disliked Angus McLaggen with an intensity that had before been reserved solely for teachers. Draco's hatred was special and cold, and people had to earn it; but dislike could be freely distributed, like largesse. Draco disliked many of the people he encountered, but most of the time they didn’t keep popping up like a weed growing under his shoe.  
  
On the first day of his two weeks, Draco arrived to find both Granger and Weasley in situ. This horrified him more than he could express, given that he was not supposed to have any particular feelings about either of them. Showing outright disgust towards them would probably be frowned upon and would almost certainly put paid to his little interview sessions with Potter. And Draco needed those sessions. They led by the most direct route to the reason Draco had returned to England at all. To what he had been waiting for since he was sixteen, the thing that had exhibited such inexorable pull that day in Kali's: his testimony at the trial of Dumbledore’s murderer.   
  
Potter gave the outward appearance of delight at his friends' presence, however. Draco paused at the door under the pretence of straightening his robes and took several deep, hopefully calming breaths. This did not go unnoticed. Draco heard Weasley whisper to Potter the pleasant observation that ‘the reporter’ looked like a ‘bloody faggot.’ Weasley’s eye for fault-finding was the only thing he had in abundance, as Draco well knew.   
  
Potter blushed at Weasley's description and made no reply, although Draco doubted he had any niceties about Draco’s feelings on the matter. More like that he was holding on to a semblance of politeness, or that Weasley hadn’t spotted the Potter-Peter connection. Draco was almost sure that there was one.   
  
Weasley was in fact looking as if he’d gone forth and prospered with the irritating single-mindedness he’d always possessed. Of course, the war had ended when Weasley was seventeen and champing at the bit. There was a fortune to be made in ransacking the assets of dead or otherwise engaged Death Eaters. It went under an official title of 'appropriation,' which basically provided an official excuse for stealing. Certainly a poor boy with an eye to the main chance would have 'appropriated' enough to set him up in the lifestyle of his choice. Weasley’s face was fatter, his robes more luxurious, and his hair looked as if it had been cut by an expert and not by one of his multiple siblings with a pair of shears.   
  
He stood as an odd contrast to Granger -- or McLaggen, Draco supposed, although the husband hardly deserved a first name either and Draco foresaw difficulties ahead on that score. Granger’s hair was both limp and static, a particularly uncouth combination, and she looked exhausted. The smudges under her eyes were as lavender as the sheets the salesman at Whistbean's had rhapsodised over, once he realised how much Draco was planning to spend on them.  
  
There were children everywhere, seeming to proliferate by the second. Neither spouse was anywhere to be seen. Weasley had his hand on the handle of a monstrous contraption, lime green in colour, which housed two shrivelled walnuts that Draco found on closer inspection to be babies. He wasn’t sure how big six-month-old infants were supposed to be, never having partaken of their company before, but he was sure that they were meant to be rather more human-looking that that. As for the rest, they seemed to find hiding beneath Potter’s bed and chuckling to be the most delightful activity in the world. They weren’t crying, although if Draco was any judge they soon would be.  
  
“Hi, Michel,” said Potter. He swung his skinny legs off the edge of the bed. Draco wondered if Potter realised that two of Granger’s offspring were making periodic grabs for his ankles, and made up his mind to kick them as soon as he thought he could get away with it.  
  
“Afternoon, Mr Potter,” replied Draco. He kept a close grip on his Butterbeer bottle, in case any child should imagine it would be fun to make off with it. He would lay bets to Weasley’s twins having the evil eye.   
  
“This is Hermione McLaggen, and Ron Weasley, my friends,” said Potter, waving a hand at them. Draco could almost see through it. “And Ron’s twins, Bert and Ro, and Hermione’s kids, Matilda, Maud, Mary, Martin and Angus.” Potter gestured at each of them in turn, sometimes bending under the bed to do it. Angus appeared from behind the bedstead when his name was called, giving Draco such a fright that he almost missed the last name. But there was no mistaking the person who stepped out of Ron’s shadow. “And Ginny Wood, Ron’s sister.”  
  
Draco stared at Ginny. Her hair was a crimson flag that draped over her shoulders as if they were a casket; her lips looked like crushed strawberries and her robes were just a fraction too low for respectability. He knew, with the knack he’d always had, that he’d just made an enemy. She placed her hand on Potter’s shoulder, making sure to curl her fingers in a little. Despite the gold ring there it was nothing more or less than an act of possession. _Mine._  
  
 _Babe, he’s all yours_ , Draco wanted to say, but it was the wrong moment for it. Instead he adopted an air of carelessness, propping one hand on his hip, tucking stray hairs behind his ear with the other. He was aware of Weasley’s none-too-well-covered sneer, but he had eyes for no one but Ginny. She tossed her head at his stare and asked, would any one like some coffee? No? And she flounced off, presumably to fetch some coffee, which she pronounced with an American twang.  
  
“That’s some bunch,” remarked Draco.   
  
“This is Michel Rodriguez, he’s a Spanish reporter,” said Potter.   
  
“I know you,” Angus piped out. Draco glared at him and he closed up against the bedpost, like an oyster.  
  
“Shh, Angus,” said Granger. Her voice was as wan as her face, which bore not a scrap of makeup despite how much it called out for it. “You can’t have met him before, this is his first time here.”  
  
“No it’s not,” muttered Angus. He busied himself with untying two of the girls’ pigtails, at which view another was sniggering at behind her hands and waiting for the onslaught of tears. Granger was more interested in potential scalpings than in her son’s back-talking. She descended on the girls with a maternal squawk as soon as she saw what was going on, elbowing Angus out of the way and setting the girls to snivelling. Angus had been doing a fine job on his own and would have untied them without either noticing. Typical Granger.  
  
“Actually,” said Draco, “Angus’s right. I was here yesterday.”  
  
“You were?” Granger looked wrong-footed, which made Draco’s inner child wriggle with glee. “Why are you back, then? I thought Harry was only giving one question per reporter.”  
  
She had developed the seriously annoying habit common to mothers, of talking of everyone else in the third person and as if they were in some way mentally deficient. Draco wondered if she’d always been like that, or if her frequent pregnancies had inculcated her into higher and higher grades of irritation-causing. She should be Grand High Mistress of the cult by this stage.  
  
Draco spoke to Weasley, however. “Yeah, well. That was before me.”   
  
Smugness was an art, requiring control and delicacy, which was why Weasley was going to be common and suffer for it for the rest of his life. Draco was vindicated to observe that Weasley turned the same shade of green as his pram at Draco’s pronouncement.   
  
“You’re a little earlier than I expected.” Potter passed a box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans to Angus to distribute. This Angus did fairly and without fuss, although he soon had his box retrieved by his mother on the whinges of a daughter who wanted another. It set up a chain reaction of whinges from those who now had less. Draco spotted Angus resting his head against the bedpost with an expression of great weariness soon afterwards.  
  
Meanwhile he absorbed Potter’s words. Why, they almost passed for an apology! Draco couldn’t countenance it. He did see Potter wince when Ron’s twins began to wail in sympathy with Hermione’s daughters, who had evidently been sweet-deprived their entire lives. Ron, exhibiting an enviable deafness no doubt brought on by six months of fatherhood, merely rocked the pram and made no effort to soothe his children or to shut them up. If they’d been Draco’s they’d have got a swift Silencing Charm in the mouth, that or dummies dipped in brandy, so it was on balance quite lucky he wasn’t likely to ever be in a position to be a father.  
  
“It’s of no matter.” Draco scooted a child away from the bed with his shoe so that he could get closer. “As it happens, your friends can help you to answer my questions -- the ones you promised to answer, remember?”  
  
“I remember.” Potter looked a little uncomfortable at the idea.   
  
Draco pulled over a chair with a Summoning Charm. Angus saved a child’s fingers from being squashed by its legs by dragging it back by its robe collar, for which action he received a severe reprimand from his mother. Draco was starting to wonder why Angus bothered, because he so clearly wasn’t getting anything for it. Then again, Draco had never understood the concept of voluntary philanthropy.  
  
Draco sat down and settled his robes over his crossed legs, smirking at Weasley’s scowl. “As Mr Potter seems to be experiencing some reluctance on the subject, perhaps he would permit me to pursue the topic on his behalf?” He glanced over at Potter, fast enough to see him hide a smile behind a hand.   
  
“Certainly,” said Potter. "You’re the one with -- or without, wasn’t it? -- the Quick-Quotes Quill, after all.”   
  
Draco allowed Potter to share a conspirator’s smile with him, just for the look on Weasley’s face.  
  
“Excellent,” said Draco. “Either of you is welcome to answer, as the questioning does concern the two of you. I did some research when I arrived, and I believe both Mrs McLaggen and Mr Weasley were companions of Mr Potter’s during his time at Hogwarts?”  
  
Weasley nodded, grudgingly. Granger, always eager, bobbed her head and said, “Yes, that’s right.”  
  
“And you were even, shall we say, sweethearts, doing a line together?”  
  
This time it was Weasley who said “Yes,” because Granger was blushing and wouldn’t look at either of them.   
  
“So the real question is, if this was the case, what prevented Mrs McLaggen from consenting to be Mrs Weasley, instead?”  
  
“Now, just see here,” roared Weasley, who had increased in lung power as well as stature since Draco had last seen him. Granger said “Oh” several times and clutched some children to her, perhaps hoping for a distraction. Instead they squirmed and shrieked for their freedom.  
  
“Please.” Potter’s soft voice cut through the cacophony like the prow of a smuggler’s ship. His friends stopped and stared at his earnest face. “I do want to know, I just … wasn’t sure how to ask.”  
  
“Fair enough.” Weasley rubbed his hairbrush of a moustache with one huge hand. “I guess we haven’t exactly brought you up to date.” He glanced over at Granger, but her face was buried in the crinkling curls of a sulky-faced child, one not quick enough to get away. “But why’s _he_ got to be here?” Draco found a thick finger prodded far too close to his nose for comfort. He flared up.  
  
“Because your precious friend _asked_ me to, Weasley,” he hissed. “An easy concept to for you to understand, surely, given how you’re used to begging --”  
  
“Michel!” Potter looked shocked, Weasley incandescent with anger, and Granger frighteningly thoughtful. Draco recoiled, cursing his quick tongue. If that hadn’t gone and broken it he didn’t know what would.  
  
“Excuse me,” said Draco, breathing heavily. “In Spain -- at home -- it is an insult we use on those who do not accord us the proper respect --” He coughed and passed a hand over his face, staring out through his fingers.  
  
He had placated them. He could see it in the way Weasley shrugged, as if to say ‘Foreigners, eh?' and Granger sent him a frown in response. Draco caught a glimpse of Angus, staring at him with popping eyes, but he put it down to the odd ways of children in general. Angus should be used to rows in the home; in fact, he should be able to give guided tours. Five children were enough to give two people something to argue about for the rest of their lives.  
  
“I promised him I'd ask, that's why. I promised to find out why you didn’t get married, like you said you would before --” Potter's outflung arm took in the bed and the room bristling with researchers and equipment, but he found sufficient description in “-- this.”  
  
Weasley began a summary protest, which was interrupted by Granger and a squeak from the child she was squeezing.  
  
“Oh, never _mind_ , Ron,” snapped Granger. “He deserves to know, and the papers were bound to find out some day. Better to make it a backnote in Harry’s first interview than front-page news, don’t you think?”  
  
Draco doubted that Weasley thought at all, but he kept his opinions to himself. Weasley just grunted, which at least suited his porcine appearance.   
  
“It’s simple, really, Harry,” continued Granger, with nary a glance at Weasley. “People grow and change and they don’t want the same things as they did when they were younger. When Voldemort -- oh Ron, _honestly_ , after all this _time_ \-- died and you, well, you know, everything was so different. I wanted to start making things normal again straight away, to build a proper life, and Ron --”  
  
“I wanted to see the world,” said Weasley. A curious hunger lent a brief brilliancy to his features. “I wanted to travel, and see all those places my parents could never afford to take us, Ireland and America and Paris and Egypt again --” Draco gave an involuntary start “-- but Hermione wanted to settle down.”  
  
“I wanted us to buy a flat, for God’s sake,” retorted Hermione. “It was hardly a life sentence.”  
  
“You knew I couldn’t aff --” Weasley began to snarl, but he caught himself and turned bright pink about the ears. “ _Anyway_ , the long and short of it is that I went to Skye to visit Charlie for a few weeks -- he was taming a couple of Ridgebacks that You-Know-Who turned out to have been corralling. And when I came back hadn’t Hermione got herself up the pole from that git McLaggen.”  
  
“Ron!” exclaimed Hermione, sounding out-and-out scandalised. Tears were standing out in her eyes and she was clutching her prisoner child so tight it yelled in distress. Draco watched them, mouth open, scraping every last bit of vindictive pleasure that he could from the situation. He didn’t bother to assess Potter’s reaction, which would no doubt be some tedious display of repressed horror and propriety.  
  
“What? Harry wanted to know.” Weasley thrust his chest out.  
  
“You could have put it a little more delicately,” hissed Hermione. “My children --!”  
  
Weasley looked momentarily shame-faced, but the becoming emotion did not last. “There you go, Harry,” he addressed to the ceiling. “There was nothing for it but to be a groomsman at my girlfriend’s wedding and listen to my mother carp on about it for about three hundred years, as if it were _my_ fault!” His voice quivered with righteous indignation.   
  
“That’s a little -- extreme,” said Potter. Draco turned to look at him for the first time since the beginning of the whole soap-opera. He looked a little paler than before and it made the dusting of freckles stand out on his nose, but apart from that he seemed unshaken.   
  
“What d’you mean?” asked Draco, in an undertone. Weasley and Granger had commenced a heated exchange of old wrongs, not loud enough to be heard and not remotely interesting to anyone but themselves.   
  
Potter started a little, as if he’d forgotten that Draco was even there. Draco took a careful sip of Polyjuice Potion and waited for Potter to finish woolgathering.   
  
“I don’t know.” Potter's voice was measured, as if he were uncertain how the next words were going to fall. “I mean, I’ve missed heaps. But when I was growing up, even back then, single mothers weren’t _thrown out_ , or anything terrible. They got given money by the government. I quite clearly remember Aunt Petunia being very offended by that, for some reason.”  
  
“Ah.” Draco tapped his nose. He noted the way Potter’s eyes followed the digit with some distraction. “Social security, I think it’s called? But that’s all very well, Potter, because you’re thinking of Muggles, not wizards.”  
  
“You mean to say --” Potter finished by making his mouth an almost perfect circle. Draco had to resist the temptation to poke his finger inside, as he’d a terrible habit of doing to his mother’s goldfish.   
  
Instead he nodded, once, burdening the gesture with as much weighty significance as possible. “She’d never have worked again, for one thing. Which would have been all right, because people always take shop girls and cleaners and the like without questioning their references, but for someone up high in the Ministry, or Ministry-funded or Ministry-sanctioned research units …” Draco crossed a finger over his throat.   
  
“And what about McLaggen?” Potter’s face was alight with guilty curiosity, which Draco had long ago realised was a natural reaction.  
  
Draco shrugged. “What about him? He could deny everything. Once the baby’s been born St Mungo’s can run tests and the like, but not before. And by that time, she’d have been ruined anyway.” He didn’t feel sorry for Granger, exactly, considering that she’d brought it all on herself. Her children were relatively innocent, however. He tried to revise this opinion when one set up a loud wail, but all he could summon up was an urge to kick it. It did nothing to absolve him of faint stirrings of pity.  
  
“That’s _terrible_.”  
  
“It’s one of the many reasons I’m glad I’m gay,” reflected Draco, mainly to himself. He spoke into a pool of silence that turned every head towards him. Most with open mouths, which weren’t half so tempting in terms of sticking his finger in.  
  
Potter made a noise that suggested that he’d just had all the air vacuumed from his lungs.   
  
“Oh, yes,” said Draco, to the unspoken question, “far more acceptable than toting a bastard born out of wedlock, as we’re much less of a drain on society. Most of the greatest magical discoveries were made by confirmed bachelors with no distractions. Mrs McLaggen will back me up there, I’m sure. Of course, we do still get the occasional homophobe, like dear Mr Weasley here, but,” he leaned forward to pat Potter’s knee in a comforting and calculated overly-familiar manner, “we generally find that it’s denial.”  
  
“I’m warning you, you little slut --” Weasley began, looking like a post-box with a beard. Draco went for his wand, but someone else got there first.  
  
Weasley’s mouth moved even more rapidly as he found that no sound emerged from within it. Granger tucked her wand back into her sleeve and said, sounding quite calm, “Ron Weasley, you‘ll keep a civil mouth in the presence of my children. Otherwise, you’ll probably find out that _I_ can still remember most of the Half-Blood Prince’s spells, even after a decade or so.”  
  
Weasley frowned furiously, but shut his mouth, probably realising the futility of moving it.   
  
“Look, Ginny’s brought coffee!” Potter's mouth was twitching. “Hermione, do you want some? Michel? I don’t actually drink it, but it was very kind of her --”  
  
“No, thank you,” said Draco. His response was more swift than polite, but he wouldn’t have put it past Ginny to have poisoned his cup. She might not recognise him, but he still remembered her Bat-Bogey Hex. _Too_ well, sometimes.  
  
Granger shook her head as well, given that her hands were occupied. Ginny, looking disgruntled, passed a cup to her brother and took one for herself, which still left three cups sitting on the cardboard tray. “I suppose I’ll have to offer these to the researchers, seeing as no one wants them,” she sniffed.  
  
“You do that,” encouraged Draco. They shared a rapid look of daggers and knives before she stomped off. Draco wondered if Potter thought she had a nice arse; she couldn’t possibly be waggling it so for anyone else’s benefit, after all.  
  
“Speaking of researchers,” said Potter, with something of his former boldness, “why are they here, Hermione? I’m sure you’ll know.”  
  
As flattery went it wasn’t much, in Draco’s opinion. Granger seemed to agree, for she just frowned and said, “They’re monitoring you.”  
  
“What for?” At Granger’s stubborn silence, Potter dropped his playful façade. “Come on, Hermione! This is _me_ they’re researching, unless you’re telling me that some Aurors just happened to set up a base in a hospital storeroom. I want to know why.”  
  
“It’s highly confidential,” attempted Granger. She picked her baby out of a bassinette on the floor and rocked it.  
  
“It also just happens to be my _life_ ,” said Potter. Draco wondered that Granger didn’t react to the clear note of danger in his voice. “If you don’t tell me, I’m just going to leave. I feel much better. I need to see about my bank vault --”  
  
“No, you can’t do that!” Granger almost dropped the baby. “You have to stay here and --”  
  
“And _what_? What, Hermione? I’m not sick, I’m not contagious, all my bones are okay. I can’t see anything wrong with me.”  
  
“No one has defeated someone like Voldemort before,” said Granger. “They want to find out how his magic worked and they can only do that by studying yours.”  
  
“My magic?” Potter glanced down at his wand hand.   
  
“I have to be getting going,” announced Granger. In quite a short time she was whisking out, ending the Silencing Spell on Ron with a word. He followed soon after, although Ginny appeared to be flirting with Peter.   
  
“That wasn’t much of an answer,” observed Draco.  
  
“You have another two weeks,” said Potter shortly, “you’ll make up the deficit.”  
  
“That wasn’t what I meant.” Draco forgot if he was supposed to be lying or not.  
  
“They’ll have a good reason for what they’re doing, I _suppose_ \-- but when you’re finished your interviews, I’m leaving.”  
  
“Where are you going to go?” Draco tugged a pillow out from under Potter’s elbow and proceeded to strip it.  
  
“Dunno,” said Potter, observing Draco with interest. “I have some property, but I’m not sure it’s habitable. What are you doing?”  
  
“Close your eyes,” instructed Draco. Potter, like the trusting fool he was, obeyed. In a trice Draco had changed the covers and when, a minute later, Potter peeked, Draco whacked him over the head with a fuchsia pillow. He nearly fell off the bed.  
  
He emerged with his hair as tousled as a kitten’s ruff and a calculating expression. Before Draco had time to think, he got the other pillow full in the face. He slid off his chair and lay on the floor with the pillow concealing his expression. He left it a few seconds, then moaned a little.  
  
Potter immediately snatched the pillow away, looking worried. “Are you all --” he began, and then saw Draco’s face, which was twisted up with sniggering. “Right,” finished Potter, and slapped him with the purple pillow.  
  
In a few seconds a staged battle was afoot; a few minutes was all it took before the air was filled with floating feathers. Draco, who’d had cause to rip apart a few pillows in his time, had forgotten how wizards stuffed their pillows. Soon he could barely see through the clouds of duckdown, although Potter seemed to have no trouble landing blows on Draco despite his glasses.  
  
One of the dumpy research witches hurried over, shrieking, “You can’t do this! Some of these instruments are highly delicate! Stop!”  
  
“Who are you telling to stop?” demanded Draco. “Is this, or is this not, Harry Potter’s room?”  
  
“But -- the mess --”  
  
“What are you, a Muggle?” asked Draco in scathing tones. “ _Reparo_!” He presented the freshly-stuffed pillows for inspection. “Does this meet your standards?”  
  
“Don’t do it again,” she warned, sniffing in a way that strongly recalled Ginny Weasley, and scurried off.  
  
Draco turned to Potter, ready to share a triumph of insubordination given that there was no one better around. He found Potter gasping, clutching the bed for support. Draco dropped the pillows and moved closer. “Potter?” he asked. He didn’t know what to say; 'You’re looking kind of blue, there' didn’t seem to suffice.  
  
“Out of the way,” came an impatient voice from behind Draco. He was pushed aside by Ginny Weasley. She dropped to her knees beside Potter, rolling up her sleeves with the air of someone about to plunge her hands into mud. She spared a glance for Draco, one which burned. “You. Out. You’ve done enough damage for one day.”  
  
“Mrs Wood?” called one of the researchers. “Do you require some assistance?”  
  
“Rejuvenating Potion,” replied Ginny. She gripped Potter’s face between two fingers and twisted it about. “The next hour’s dose as well.”  
  
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Potter,” whispered Draco. He fancied Potter winked at him, but that might have been spasms.  
  
He walked out slowly, not even worrying about bumping into Rosaline. Instead he encountered Angus. He was loitering about the lobby while one of his sisters had a full-body tantrum, lying on her stomach and beating her tiny fists into the floor.  
  
“Hello Mr Michel.” Angus curled his incongruous eyebrows together like writhing caterpillars. “When are you going to write your story about Uncle Harry?”  
  
“None of your business,” snapped Draco. “And he’s not your uncle, nitwit.”  
  
“I know that,” replied Angus, with great dignity, “but Mother likes us to call him Uncle. She says it gives him a semblance of a family.”  
  
“Some family,” sneered Draco, wondering how old Angus was. Seven or eight, or younger?  
  
“Where’s your family, Mr Michel?”  
  
“In Spain, somewhere,” said Draco. They _were_ somewhere. Languishing in prison or buried ‘neath the clay; no one had ever seen fit to inform him, and he still hadn’t thought of a way to find out without blowing his cover. Perhaps he could drop in a general question about former Death Eaters tomorrow?  
  
“I don’t think so,” said Angus.   
  
“I really don’t care, one way or another, _what_ you think,” said Draco, although it wasn’t true. He was a little frightened by Angus, who had a way of looking at him like his brain was a piece of clockwork and Angus knew what made it go.   
  
Ginny caught Draco just at the door, where he was preparing his mind to Apparate to his hotel. Her gaze wasn’t half so complicated as Angus’ but it saw what Angus probably missed, given that sexual preference wasn’t such a big deal when you were seven.  
  
“I don’t think you should keep visiting Harry,” she said. “I know he wants you to, and you probably will, but you over-excite him. He needs some calm.”  
  
“Calm?” repeated Draco, curling his lip. “Woman --” he pronounced it like the curse it was “-- he’s been _asleep_ for the last eight years. How much more calm can you get?”  
  
“Don’t act like you know everything, Mr Rodriguez.” Ginny's eyes flashed. “You don’t, I can assure you.”  
  
“But I will.” Draco smiled lazily. “Potter has given me access to pick his brain for the next fortnight. That’s plenty of time.”  
  
“ _Potter_ ,” echoed Ginny, with a narrow glare. “Who are you, Mr Rodriguez?”   
  
“Someone who’d like to remind you that you are married, Mrs Wood,” said Draco, with a significant glance at her wedding band. “Potter really isn’t your responsibility any more, even if he once was.”  
  
“ _Harry_ is always going to be my -- responsibility,” said Ginny. “And _that’s_ from someone who’d like to remind you, Mr Rodriguez, that you are a man.”  
  
She whirled on her heel and sprinted away, displaying her ankles for the world to see.  
  
“Gee, _thanks_ for that,” said Draco to himself, and turned his mind to Apparition.  
  



	8. Chapter 8

Angus was there the next day, mercifully not in the company of any of his sisters. Draco would have liked to glare at him, but Potter was watching.  
  
“Angus has been keeping me company all morning,” explained Potter, ruffling the urchin’s hair. Angus looked greatly affronted at such treatment, but he kept his peace.   
  
“How sweet,” said Draco. “Children are such a balm to the soul, are they not?” Angus made a sceptical face, and Potter laughed.  
  
“I wouldn’t go that far. Babies can get a bit tiring. But Angus could pass for someone ten years older.”  
  
“If it was dark, anyway,” muttered Draco. He was surprised to hear Potter laugh again.  
  
“I drew a picture,” offered Angus. “You’re in it.”  
  
“Show it to Michel,” urged Potter, before Draco could decline the pleasure. Gritting his teeth, he took the neatly cut piece of parchment from Angus’ paw and studied it.  
  
The drawing was quite skilfully executed. All the bodies were in proportion, if stiff-looking. They were far from being stick men with balloon heads, such as Draco had secretly hoped for. There were even small labels for ease of identification.   
  
A man in black robes, with yellow serpents for hair, was 'Daddy.' Granger was easy to recognize, even without her printed name, for small children were crawling all over her figure. Potter was lying in a bed which, due to the lack of foreshortening, was shown in the round. He had black hair and black shoes but not much else. His lightning scar was down the length of his body instead of on his forehead, presumably because its pictorial equivalent was so small as to prevent it being seen at all.   
  
'Ginny' was on one side of the bed, her hair coiled around her feet. Draco was pretty certain it did not reach such Rapunzelesque proportions in reality. That, and her hand -- on which she was wearing a ring big enough to double as a bracelet -- were her most distinguishing features. The hand was resting beside Potter’s head.  
  
Draco spotted Michel's name on the other side of the bed. He dragged his eyes up, eager to see what rendition Angus had made of him. Undeniable vanity drove him on, for he knew Stefano was stunning.   
  
Angus had made much of Draco’s hands, not being very proficient with positioning of the body or describing the fall of cloth. One hand was on the other side of Potter’s head, which was an odd place. Draco supposed it was for balance or something.  
  
His other hand gripped a bottle, and his hair was yellow.  
  
The bottom dropped out of Draco’s stomach and he looked up. Angus was smirking.  
  
“You got my hair wrong,” he said.  
  
“And my scar, don’t forget,” said Potter, pulling up his pyjama shirt. “See? No scar, Angus.”  
  
Angus regarded him with a steady gaze. Draco was more interested in the child, although he did notice that there were creamy hollows beside both of Potter’s hips and coils of dark hair around his bellybutton, standing out like scrub on a bare mountain.  
  
“Yeah, and my hair’s _black_.” Draco thrust the parchment back at Angus.  
  
“Not really, it’s quite a dark brown,” observed Potter, pursing his lips. “And Dudley -- my cousin, that is -- used to paint people with orange and purple skin. I think it’s a kid thing.”  
  
Angus waited until Potter wasn’t looking and shook his head at Draco. He tucked the parchment into his pocket.  
  
“So,” said Draco, “every artist has a motivation, Angus. What’s yours?”   
  
“I draw what I see,” replied Angus placidly. He was absorbed in tidying away his colouring pencils, stacking them in rainbow order in an old tin. This completed, he took up the bits of toys on the floor by tugging on the end of a string. For a moment they took on an odd, almost familiar shape, then Angus tugged the string and it fell apart. In a moment, he set a top to spinning as if there were nothing else in the world worth doing.  
  
Potter shifted in the bed, clearing his throat. Draco obediently transferred his attention. Potter was still in pyjamas, although they were now a dark green silk. They suited him, Draco supposed. At least, they made his skin distinguishable from his clothing.  
  
“Still no sign of you being granted grounds privileges?” asked Draco abruptly. Silk had always been his favourite material, although of late he hadn’t been able to afford it. Seeing it on Potter’s back was somehow a travesty. Potter paid his clothing scarcely any attention. He gave off the impression of someone who regarded clothing as a place to put pockets in, as he always had done.  
  
“There are no grounds,” observed Potter, with a faint smile. He rapped his knuckles on the windowpane. “It’s all an illusion. What you’d really see out there is rows and rows of house roofs, I think.”  
  
“You must be going stir-crazy in here.” Draco leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs in such a way that his robes fell beautifully. “All this activity going on around you, for you, and you don’t know why and you can’t do anything.”  
  
“Thanks, I needed that reminder.” Potter ruffled two hands through his hair, a styling it truly did not require. It fell all over his forehead when he released it -- wispy strands dancing on the faint air currents -- but Potter paid it no mind.   
  
“You could do with some clothes,” Draco told him. This provoked Potter to colour and look down at his pyjamas, as if afraid they had disappeared from his body. “It’s only encouraging you to be ill if you’re dressed in bedclothes all of the time.”  
  
“I haven’t got anything but these, and they were bought for me,” said Potter. Draco gave silent thanks that one person, at least, knew what looked good on Potter, as it for sure wasn’t him. “All my other robes are too small.”  
  
“Well,” said Draco, slowly, as an idea formed in his mind, “I’ll get some made up for you.”  
  
“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” protested Potter. He worried at his buttons as though Draco were going to forcibly extract them from him.  
  
“Potter, you’re doing me the favour. I always feel like I’m interrupting your convalescence. Which I am, considering how you fainted yesterday.”  
  
“I did not faint!” Potter narrowed his eyes. “I overreached my strength. I’m not _sick_.”  
  
“You’re well enough to fly that broom, then?” Draco made eyes at the Firebolt in the corner. “Make up your mind.”  
  
“Fine.” Potter sounded sulky. “I’ll give you some money for robes.” Draco smirked. Potter would soon believe it was his own idea. “But I don’t know what my measurements are.”  
  
Draco shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Madame Malkin’s will have them.”  
  
“How do you know?” asked Potter. Draco backtracked.  
  
“Isn’t that where most British wizards go? I, er, sometimes chip in on the fashion supplement of the newspaper --”  
  
“The _Daily Prophet_ has a fashion supplement? They’ve kept that under their hats.”  
  
“It does in Spain,” said Draco, taking charge of the conversation. “So there you go. I’ll pay her a visit this evening.”  
  
“Madame Malkin was killed by Death Eaters,” stated Potter. “Her niece runs the place now. They may well have saved some records from the fire in 1997, but even if they did, I’ve grown about five inches since then.”  
  
“Ah, that does present rather a problem.” Draco tugged at his lower lip.  
  
“You could measure him,” Angus piped up, from the floor.  
  
“I could what?” Draco's voice was low with danger. Angus, as the preferred prey, remained obstinately unperturbed.  
  
“Measure him,” repeated Angus. “Conjure a measuring tape and take his measurements. Mum does it for us.”  
  
“That’s not a bad idea,” agreed Potter. He sounded -- for someone who’d been against the idea only five minutes before -- suspiciously eager. “Isn’t it shoulders, waist and hips?”  
  
“And inner leg,” admitted Draco, after a reluctant pause. “They use the, ah, groin area as the drop for the skirt part.”  
  
“Go on, then,” encouraged Angus. “It was your idea, after all.”  
  
Draco glared at him, because he’d just been thinking that and wondering how he could get out of it without losing face. There were some things that he would never do on any account. Touching Harry Potter wasn’t one of them, but it still wasn’t something he could sally into without a qualm.  
  
“You’ll need to stand up,” he told Potter at last. “If you’re sure you won’t faint.”  
  
“I didn’t faint,” said Potter in an irritable tone of voice. “I _told_ you already -- God, you’re a pain in the neck at times, Michel.”  
  
“Oh, you haven’t known me very long, Potter. Wait till you have, then you’ll know that I’m a pain in the neck at _all_ times.”  
  
“I could chuck you out for this, you know.”  
  
“You always were power-mad,” muttered Draco, and then louder, “You’re getting a bit of a God complex, Potter. You’d want to watch that.” He turned away to conjure a tape measure and encountered Angus’ wide, frog-like grin. Draco pulled a hideous face at him and started unwinding the tape measure.  
  
“How do you want it?” asked Potter, standing beside the bed with arms akimbo. He didn’t look like he was about to collapse, at least.  
  
“Hard and fast, usually,” said Draco without turning a hair. It was just too easy to make a seventeen-year-old blush. “But for you, stay still.” He took a breath and tugged Potter’s arm upwards by his sleeve. “In fact, that’s something I say quite a lot, too.” He grinned into Potter’s ear, delighted to see that it too was turning red.  
  
“You might want this,” interrupted Angus. He held out Draco’s notebook and quill. Draco made another face at him over Potter’s shoulder and reached under his arm for the articles.   
  
And felt Potter tremble, just the tiniest bit.  
  
Draco drew back under the excuse of putting the quill and paper on the bed, his head spinning. Even the back of Potter’s neck -- the place where his hair was clipped close to his skin, running short and bristly from the shells of his pink-tinged ears to the hollow nape of his neck -- was flushed. Potter’s arms were still in the air and he was flexing his fingers compulsively.  
  
“What’s keeping you?” he demanded. As soon as Draco heard the telltale quiver in his voice, he knew.   
  
Potter wanted him.  
  
Feeling lightheaded, Draco mumbled an inane reply and stepped forward to run the measuring tape from Potter’s shoulder blade to his wrist. The tips of Draco’s fingers pressed against Potter’s hot skin and his hip dug into Potter’s. When Draco looped the tape around Potter’s chest, he had to stop himself from pulling Potter back into the curve of his own body, which unfortunately made no distinction between the eligible males and the Potters of the world.  
  
By the time Draco came to Potter’s hips, his breathing was audible. Draco spun him around so that he was facing the bed, but Angus was observing them with altogether too deep an interest.   
  
“Kid!” barked Draco, horrified to discover that his voice was hoarse. “Get Potter some water, will you?”  
  
“What? Why?” protested Angus, but a simple “Please” from Potter sent him scuttling off to the door.   
  
Potter begged very well, Draco reflected hazily. Pity he couldn’t exploit it. Because there was no way he was ever laying a finger on Potter.   
  
Aside from the ones touching him now, that was.   
  
Draco dropped to his knees, swallowing quickly. With a light touch on Potter’s left inner thigh Draco got him to brace his legs wider. Making himself a promise to ignore any direct consequences of his actions, he held the tip of his measuring tape at Potter’s bare ankle and drew it upwards. Through the thin fabric, Potter burned like a brand.   
  
Draco whipped around as soon as he was done, scribbling measurements like a fiend and with a great deal more diligence than he had ever taken notes in school. He heard the rustle of sheets.   
  
Potter had his knees tucked tight against his chest when Draco next viewed him. Draco’s brain had slumped into the consistency of neuron porridge; the only clear thought he could entertain was one of immediate escape. It would be extremely dangerous to allow Potter time to put words around what had just happened. Speaking only made it real.  
  
Of course, Potter didn’t realise who it was he was getting weak-kneed over, which only made it triply dangerous. If Potter ever found out, the retribution would be swift and terrible.  
  
Angus clattered through the door bearing a pitcher of water and a glass, just as Potter opened his mouth. Draco seized the opportunity.  
  
“There’s some water,” he almost gasped. “I’ll go off to Malkell’s now. I mean, Malkin’s. I’ll go to Malkin’s. For some mobes. Robes! I’ll get _robes_! For you.”  
  
Potter mumbled something in reply, but it was so indistinct that it was as unintelligible as Draco’s latest speech. While Angus distracted Potter with his careful water-boy service, Draco slipped away.  
  
He paused near the door, defenceless against the temptation to look back. Potter was ruffling Angus’ hair again, but this time the boy didn’t look offended. Potter’s pyjamas hung on him like rags on a scarecrow and his hair was crazier than ever, due to the rough treatment he’d given it during Draco’s visit. The sun was blazing in the windows, picking out indiscriminate golden highlights in Potter and Angus’ hair and skin and folds of clothing. The beachcombing light favoured Potter’s glasses, which beamed out sparks like fireworks.  
  
Draco blinked away the aftershocks and the rogue thought that questioned if he _could_ seduce Potter, should the chance arise.   
  
He turned around and, with Potter’s halo still blazing in his mind, bumped straight into Rosaline.  
  
She was alternately embarrassed and keen and Draco wished she wouldn't cling to him so, even when she wasn’t touching him. “Hi, Michel,” she whispered, acting coy despite the way her breasts were billowing in his direction.  
  
“Rosaline,” he acknowledged her.  
  
“You’re still coming to see Harry Potter?” she breathed. _Hardly you_ , thought Draco. “You’re so sweet. The poor boy.” She heaved a lugubrious sigh and Draco wondered how old she thought _he_ was, to be calling Potter a 'boy.'  
  
“Why d’you say that?” he asked, although he’d already made up his mind that she was a bleeding heart and probably rescued baby birds and drowning kittens and thought everyone who wasn’t upper middle class merited her eternal pity.  
  
“Oh, well, you know.” She dropped her eyes. From an Auror, that was as good as a huge sign saying 'Mystery: do not question.' Draco had never had had much respect for warnings, as they too often warned him not to do something he wanted to do.  
  
“No, I don’t, but I think you do,” he wheedled. He strummed her elbow to draw her closer and thanked his private deity that he’d said a Freshening Charm on his breath before coming to see Potter. “You can tell _me_ , Rosaline, you know.”  
  
“You didn’t firecall me,” she said, in a voice that was, for her, accusing. In anyone else it would have been toneless to the point of catatonia.  
  
Draco looked at the floor, then dragged his gaze up, biting his lip as he did so. “I’m a bit shy when it comes to that,” he said, doing his best attempt at 'confiding.' Judging by her expression, it was an award-winning, five-star attempt. “But I was sure I’d bump into you here, you know …”  
  
“Really?” Her shapeless face lit up. How someone this gullible had made it past the Auror guidelines was a mystery to Draco.   
  
“Really,” he lied. “And I know you finish your shift soon, so I was hoping I could take you for something to eat.”   
  
His eyes said more and he clutched the Butterbeer bottle of Polyjuice like a security blanket. He was taking more and more each day and stocking up with speed, but it was too important to do otherwise. There was enough to get him through the evening and, for his sanity, the darkness as well.   
  
He’d need to pull another night in Blackweather to get Rosaline’s taint off his skin.


	9. Chapter 9

Angus was lying on his stomach beside Potter’s bed again the next day, scribbling for all he was worth. Even though he was the most annoying person in a cavalcade of annoying people in the current battle that was Draco’s life, Draco paid him almost no mind. He was too caught up in wondering how Potter would react to yesterday's events and pondering the information Rosaline had deigned to share the previous evening. Even before she got him into bed, which only went to prove how naïve and trusting she was.   
  
Draco despised Rosaline too much to care about her future broken heart, as he despised most people who came to care for him. In fact, the only people he _didn’t_ despise for their self-delusion in loving him were his parents.   
  
His heart jumped a little. Draco didn’t like to think about his parents, as then he’d start wondering and worrying about them and where they were and how much he wanted to see them again. It was impossible, and everything Draco wanted had to be within his reach.  
  
Draco sluiced down his hair as he approached the bed, blinking sleepy eyes. He’d made a pay-phone call to Stefano, spinning a yarn about meeting an old school friend in a pub to explain his absence. That was a few minutes before he returned to Blackweather Alley and picked up a young man who, with his trembling and brown hair, passed for Potter if Draco squinted. Of course, the fact that Draco had used Potter as a stand-in wasn’t going to make the day’s conversation any easier.   
  
“Was it raining outside?” Potter took in Draco’s wet hair with a quick sideways glance and a choked-down shiver, which left Draco torn between irritation and a banging heart.  
  
“Angel piss,” said Draco. To Angus’ wide eyes and Potter’s guffaw, he elaborated, “Drifting showers, you know. Gets everywhere, all the same.” He ran a finger under his collar, where dribbles of rain were even now mingling around his clavicles.   
  
“You should dry yourself off,” suggested Angus.  
  
“Yeah, there’s no towels around,” said Draco.   
  
Angus’ eyes looked like to bug out of his skull. “Use a Charm!”  
  
“Oh. I forgot.” Draco pointed his wand at himself and incanted a spell for drying cloth. He chanced a glance at Potter as he did so, but Potter was intent upon his fingernails, not displaying any avidity or jealousy at all.   
  
“How did you forget magic?” asked Angus, sounding scornful. “It’s like forgetting to breathe!”  
  
“Yes, because _you_ can do so much, is it?” snapped Draco. “As a matter of fact, magic is a habit, and one that’s easy to fall out of if you hang around with Muggles for too long.”  
  
Before Angus could retort, Potter asked with interest, “Really? Have you spent much time with them, then?”  
  
“Months at a time.” Draco scowled at Angus. “Not to mention I’ve had several Muggle _lovers_ and it’s technically _illegal_ to use magic near them.”  
  
“You can’t shock me,” proclaimed Angus. “I know where babies come from.”  
  
Draco snorted. “But you do know that they don’t come when two men have sex?”  
  
“I was trying to be polite about it,” said Angus. “ _Actually_. My mother explained it to me.”  
  
“Another authority on buggery,” sneered Draco.  
  
“They’re called books. You can learn a lot from them.” Angus curled his lip.  
  
“And he’s called Angus, and he is seven,” interposed Potter. His cheeks were flaming and he was sitting with his hands folded in his lap, for all the world like a Middle Eastern prince in his silk pyjamas. It didn’t help Draco in his effort to keep a straight face to see that Angus was also sucking in a laugh. “Perhaps we should get on, Michel? You haven’t got that much information in the last few days, have you?”  
  
 _More than you know_ , thought Draco, but he said, “I am interested in getting your reaction as regards former Death Eaters.”  
  
Potter raised his eyebrows. “Former? I didn’t hear that any of them repented.”  
  
“By former, I mean ones surviving the death of --” Draco almost said ‘the Dark Lord,’ but that would have been a dead giveaway “-- You-Know-You.”  
  
“Then they are still Death Eaters,” said Potter, his smile a glint of steel. “Just because the person they served can’t spread his evil any longer doesn’t mean that his followers have stopped doing it.”  
  
“It would be kind of pointless at this stage, wouldn’t it?” Draco kept his voice on an even keel. It was a rather difficult task, given that Angus was staring at him with narrowed eyes and an expression that suggested kidney problems.  
  
“Oh, there’s always chances to do murder and cruelty,” said Potter, with another flash of that disturbing smile. “Why do you think there’s such strong security around _me_? They’ll try to kill me for the rest of their lives, just to get even. That’s the kind of people they are.”  
  
Draco sent him a long look, lips pursed. “There was a certain time in Germany when people joined a group of Muggle Death Eaters. Not because they particularly wanted to find chances for murder and cruelty but because if they didn’t, the murder and cruelty would be done to them. They were often misinformed, as well.”  
  
Potter made an unpleasant noise. “I somehow doubt that the Death Eaters were misinformed. And if they were that worried, they could have joined the Order of the Phoenix.”  
  
“How?”   
  
Potter crinkled his nose. “What do you mean, ‘how?’ They fought against Voldemort and the Death Eaters! They were the good guys! ‘How,’ honestly.”  
  
“But how would they know where to find them?” asked Draco. Before Potter could answer Angus felt the need to contribute.  
  
“A small group of Aurors tortured Narcissa Malfoy to death,” he said. "You know, the good guys."   
  
Both Draco and Potter turned to stare at him, Draco feeling like he was pushing his way through air made of ice.   
  
Angus sent him a cool stare. There was nothing of compassion there, but also nothing of blame. “It took four hours. They wanted information on where her son was, you see. He was --”  
  
“Under suspicion for the murder of Professor Dumbledore, yeah,” muttered Potter. He seemed to have lost the fire he’d spoken with earlier.  
  
“Also once his father was put in gaol, they thought the Death Eaters would try to make him their leader.” Angus resumed colouring in a picture of a shoe with small strokes. “I read some of Mum’s notes for her book.”  
  
“When,” tried Draco, shaking his head to get the pressing weight off it, “when was this?”  
  
“In the weeks before the final battle,” said Potter. “I remember that. Did they ever find Malfoy, Michel?”  
  
“I don’t know,” said Draco, “I was in France.” _That’s the reason why I didn’t know my mother was dead, you see._  
  
“Nope, they never did.” Angus was proving to be quite the fount of information. “They’ll probably have to try Severus Snape for murder without him.”  
  
“They don’t need Malfoy for that,” spat Potter. “They can put Malfoy on trial for being a git, but Snape murdered Dumbledore and that’s all there is to it.”  
  
“Innocent until proven guilty,” spouted Angus.  
  
“Where’d you pick that one up from, kid?” asked Draco. “That’s a Muggle thing. If wizards even thought about it, it’d be ‘guilty until proven guilty.’ One of the benefits of Veritaserum and Pensieves.”  
  
Angus just shrugged. “When did your mother die, Mr Michel?”  
  
Draco swallowed back a yelp. “A -- a long time ago. Why?”  
  
“I just wondered,” said Angus, beaming falsely at him. He was missing one of his front teeth. “Your dad must miss you, if you’re all he has now.”  
  
“Probably,” said Draco, his voice brusque. “To be honest, I wouldn’t know. We don’t talk very often.”  
  
Angus chewed the top of one of his pencils. “I don’t talk to my dad very much either.”  
  
“And I’ve never talked to mine,” said Potter. “This is a very jolly conversation, isn’t it?”  
  
“Well, what would you like to talk about?” Draco flicked back the hairs that were slithering into his eyes. “Love? Marriage? A horse and carriage?”  
  
“I’ve never been in love,” offered Potter. Draco didn’t think that it was a statement that merited a deep blush, but obviously his and Potter’s opinions diverged on that point. “Have you?”  
  
The question took Draco by surprise. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d said ‘I love you,’ nor how many had been paid for. It was a simple thing to say and, fortunately for him, most people didn’t associate it with the actual feelings reputed to be involved with being in love. For everyone he’d said it to, it had been the first time. That was what people liked to believe -- that before them, every feeling had been a lie.  
  
“I might have thought I was, once or twice.” Draco winced a little as Blaise’s face sprung, unbidden, to mind. “I don’t really believe in it, anyway. It’s a pretty name for lust and being scared of dying alone.”  
  
“That’s harsh,” laughed Potter, “especially coming from someone who claims never to have been in love.”  
  
“The powers of observation are great indeed,” observed Draco, earning him an eye-roll from Angus’ direction. “What, then, is the hero version of love? A comely maiden, rescued from the tower or dragon of your choice, and a life based on worship and misapprehension?”  
  
A dark look passed over Potter’s face, but it was gone before Draco could define it. “No,” he said, sounding as if the word was the product of long and deep thought. “I think love is like anything else. It has tests to prove if it’s real.”  
  
“I don’t suppose you have an example handy? No, don’t tell me. Something to do with mattresses and peas and the unimpeachable virtue of the lady in question.”  
  
Potter’s baffled face told Draco that the barb had missed its mark. “Why do you keep talking about women? I thought you were --”  
  
“Gay? Yes,” Draco finished for him. “For more information, dial double three Angus.” Angus gave an insulted yelp. “But I was talking about you. And you haven’t answered the question. This is well worth publishing. How to win Harry Potter’s love, in three easy steps.”  
  
Potter adopted an expression of exasperation that was the first to fit his age. “It’s not like that. I just thought of all the things I loved doing, like playing Quidditch and, er --”  
  
“Defeating evil?” suggested Draco.  
  
“Among other things,” conceded Potter. “And I thought that if I loved someone -- really loved them -- then I would be okay with giving up all the other things I loved for them, because they would be enough.”  
  
Draco raised his eyebrows. “And you think that works for everyone? That you’re supposed to subjugate everything that makes you happy for _someone else_?”  
  
“Well, yes,” said Potter.  
  
“Why, thank you, Potter. You’ve made me absolutely and completely grateful that I have never, and most likely never will be, in love.”  
  
“You make it sound terrible.”   
  
“No, _you_ make it sound terrible. Imagine giving up so much for one person!”  
  
“The point I was trying to make was, they’d be worth it.”  
  
Draco snorted. “I haven’t yet met anyone who’d be worth it.”  
  
“Then you haven’t been in love.” Potter smiled beatifically. “Go on, then, what’s the thing you love most that would be such a wrench to give up?”  
  
“Sex,” said Draco automatically, and Potter choked.   
  
“Okay,” he coughed. “I, er, think that might actually be part of the general package, anyway.”  
  
Draco shook his head. “By your reasoning, I’d have to commit to a life of monogamy. For this hypothetical love of my life, I’d have to give up sleeping with everyone else. How terrible is that!”  
  
“Given that most people don’t actually sleep with everyone else in the world,” said Potter, blinking in an exaggerated manner, “really, _really_ terrible.”  
  
A laugh escaped Draco before he could prevent it. Shocking, to be laughing in genuine humour at something Potter had said! Yet there it was.   
  
“Uncle Harry’s more right than you,” said Angus, “even though you know more than him.”  
  
“Oh, cheers,” said Draco. “Someone who hasn’t even started a fulfilling relationship with his hand is presuming to lecture on love. How sweet.”  
  
“At least my mind isn’t as clouded as yours.” Angus remained unmoved by Draco’s crudeness. For a child of seven, he was as composed as a Buddhist monk.  
  
“You’ve cheated me out of my three steps, though, Potter.” Draco turned his back pointedly on Angus. “I’m most upset. I might forget to collect your robes because of it.”  
  
“Did you get some made up?” Potter’s face lit up. “Wow, thanks. You’re right, it will be good to get out of pyjamas.”  
  
“Of course I’m right,” said Draco in withering tones. “Finally you start to realise this. If only --” he cut himself off before he could finish the thought. “I got mainly dark green, dark blue and scarlet, with that new bias cut. A few linen and one wool. Not exactly evening wear, but they’ll do.”  
  
“Er, yes,” said Potter. “I don’t care what colour they are.”  
  
“Damn.” Draco smacked his forehead. “If I’d known that, I’d have got pink. It goes so well with your eyes. What a wasted opportunity.”  
  
“Oh, please,” said Potter, but he was grinning. “I would have killed you if you’d brought back pink robes. I’m not a girl.”  
  
“Death threats now, is it? Not very heroic, you know. Also, pink is the colour of victory.”  
  
“That’s red,” Potter corrected him, but he sounded distracted. “Look, your Mum’s here!”  
  
Draco spun around in his chair, his heart leaping into his mouth, but all he saw was Granger’s bushy head bouncing across the room. Angus, on the other hand, gave a shout and barrelled across to her.  
  
“God, you gave me a fright,” said Draco, realising that his voice sounded genuinely weak. “I thought you were calling up the ghost of my mother.”  
  
“If it were that easy, I’d call up my own mother.” Potter sounded sad. Draco didn’t look at him, in case his face looked anything like Draco’s felt.  
  
 _My mother is dead_ , experimented Draco, as he watched Granger absently pat Angus on the head and adjust the baby perched on her hip. No, it didn’t work, in the sense of believing it to be true. His mother had been as good as dead for eight years. He’d got used to not seeing her. He’d even stopped missing her. If she was dead, that would all change for the worst. Better by far to imagine her in foreign gaol, on the run in South America, living under an assumed name in a Russian fief -- any one of the dozen other stories he’d told himself at night, when it was that or wake up to find his tears frozen to his face.  
  
A look of naked longing crossed Angus’ face as Granger stuck her little finger in her baby’s mouth, seeming to have forgotten the existence of her eldest son. The look was gone as soon as it came, replaced by Angus’ customary expression of cow-like calm. It occurred to Draco that a mother didn’t have to be dead to not be there.   
  
“Hello, Harry,” said Granger in her muted voice. She leaned across the bed to kiss Potter’s temple. “How are you today?”  
  
“Great. Michel and I were having a debate about the nature of love.”  
  
Granger gave a hollow bark of laughter. “How useful. Michel looks like someone who’d know a lot about it.” Her look was shrewd as she took in Stefano’s sweet lips curved in a knowing smile that belonged to Draco alone.   
  
“Actually, no.” Potter scratched his ankle. “He’s never been in love, and neither have I, so we’re both a bit lost.”  
  
“Never been in love?” Granger conjured up a chair and sat down awkwardly, trying not to disturb her baby, whose eyes were fluttering in a battle against slumber. “What about Ginny?”  
  
Potter looked disconcerted. “What about her? She’s married.”  
  
“I know, Harry, I went to the wedding.” Granger rolled her eyes and jostled the baby closer to her breast. “I meant before that, when you were in school.”  
  
“You mean sixth year, when I was stalking Malfoy most of the time?” snorted Potter. Draco jumped in his chair and tried to pretend he’d meant to, even as his heart raced. “Sure, I had a crush on Ginny, but it wasn’t like it had time to develop or anything.”  
  
“You did go out,” Granger reminded him. “And I’m sure you thought about her a lot, certainly more than about Draco Malfoy.”  
  
Potter looked unconvinced. “I don’t think I was in love with her, Hermione. At that point, I felt too much hate to love anyone.”  
  
Granger heaved a deep sigh. “I shouldn’t worry about it if I were you. Love will come, and probably go away again, if I know anything about it.”  
  
“How’s Maud?” asked Potter, in a clumsy attempt to change the subject.   
  
Granger had the child-oriented mindset of any new mother and she was soon depositing the baby in Potter’s arms. Potter sent Draco a desperate look. Draco was too grateful for his own exemption to do anything meaner than smirk at him.   
  
Potter probably didn’t notice because his attention was claimed by Maud (who was screwing up her face in preparation for either a bellow or a bowel movement). Draco, however, had an unimpeded view of the back of Granger’s neck as her hair swung forward, and also of the purpling bruise that was revealed.  
  
“Mrs McLaggen,” said Draco, as Granger sat back, watching Potter with a proprietorial expression. “Where are your dear husband and children today?”  
  
“Cormac’s looking after the younger ones. Did you want to ask _him_ some questions?”  
  
“Not particularly. Although I’ll bet his version of love would be one worth hearing. No, it was just an empty enquiry.”  
  
“Speaking of empty enquires, Mr Rodriguez, how is your interview with Harry going?”  
  
“It’s very interesting,” said Draco with perfect truth. “I’m sure I’ll be able to present an alternative view of the Boy Who Lived, one that few people know.”  
  
“Are you sure that’s a good thing?” asked Granger. Maud claimed two of Potter’s fingers as booty. “Does the general public really want to know that heroes have a human side? I rather think it wants the opposite: a statue to worship. Someone they can look up to, not empathise with. That’s what victims are for.”  
  
“And where does that leave Potter?” said Draco, with more sharpness than he’d intended. “Statues don’t have much of a social life, as far as I can see. They don’t get married or fight with their children.”  
  
“Nor do they suffer, nor do they grow old.” Granger glanced over at Potter. Draco followed her gaze, watching with an inadvertent smile as Potter coochicooed rather helplessly and Maud’s face brewed a storm.   
  
“And, Mr Rodriguez,” added Granger, in a low voice, “has Harry struck you so far as the sort who wants to get _married_ , with all that it entails?”  
  
“Hitting his future wife, you mean?” Draco stretched his lips into a crescent moon. “I couldn’t say. Was he violent in school?”  
  
Granger’s hand had gone to her neck, but she snatched it back almost angrily. “I’m saying that if _I_ can see it, then _you_ should be able to write a thesis on it for your newspaper. In this day and age, I somehow doubt it will affect his eligibility, but you certainly will be instrumental in tearing down his statue.”  
  
“I’m afraid this abstract suppositioning is rather beyond me, Mrs McLaggen.” Draco affected a practised simper. “I am but a mere reporter and hack. Mr Weasley will back me up on that one.”  
  
“Mmm,” said Granger, bunching her lips. She lifted Maud out of Harry’s grateful arms just as she began to cry.   
  
“Mum, look what I drew.” Angus yanked on the belt of Granger's skirt and gazed up at her with limpid eyes. In his other hand he waved a new parchment.  
  
“Angus, shh a minute. Let me get Maud to sleep, will you?” Granger sighed with unhappy frustration.  
  
Angus bowed his head but drew away. Draco saw that he was clutching the parchment very tightly, but he did not so much as whimper. Despite his dislike for the boy, Draco couldn’t help but admire his self-control.  
  
Evidently, he was not the only one. As Granger stood up to walk off Maud’s temper tantrum, Potter slithered forward in the bed until he was level with Angus, whose shoulders were moving as he took deep breaths.  
  
“Can I see?” Draco heard him ask Angus.   
  
Draco watched Granger’s thin wrists and the red marks on them that looked like the impression of fingerprints. He'd sometimes had those himself, although never there.  
  
He glanced at Angus’ drawing before he left. The large caption read 'Love' and it was, as far as Draco could see, an abstract composition of broomsticks, yellow snakes, a lightening bolt, a clenched fist and lots of swirly pink smoke.  
  
Love, as Draco knew, was for the birds. Swans, judging by reputation. The sun was just setting as he left, and there was plenty left in his Butterbeer bottle. He decided to go to the place where love had at least got a negotiable value.  
  



	10. Chapter 10

Draco would not have called himself a careless man, but in certain ways he knew he was heedless. There was a subsisting certainty in the back of his mind that by borrowing Stefano’s likeness he was playing with fire. If Polyjuice disguises worked so well on a long-term basis, criminals and politicians would be using them all of the time and there would be dungeons full of beautiful men and women bred for the purpose. Seeing as that was not the case, Draco knew that somehow, some time, he would get caught out.   
  
Asking for two weeks of Potter’s time had been a spur-of-the-moment gamble and it had -- amazingly -- worked so far. There was no way Draco would have got so close to him in his own body, or even if Potter had been in the fullness of his health. Draco had discovered much of what he’d hoped.   
  
His father and Snape were in Azkaban. His father had undergone a trial for membership of a subversive organisation and been sentenced to life, the judges not keen to let him re-offend for the third time. If Draco had tried hard enough, he could have visited him, but his father had always disliked reporters. How such an interview would go, Draco was not prepared to wonder. 'Hallo Father, it’s me,' would be as likely to get him landed with an adjoining cell as his father’s welcoming embrace.  
  
No one had yet come forward to confront him with his true identity, something he had been expecting to happen ever since he'd received the newspaper article. It was looking less and less like it was going to happen at all. His mother -- the last person left who might have sent it out of concern -- was eight years dead; everyone with a vendetta against Draco was dead or in gaol.   
  
So Draco skated on, not quite sure what he was doing or why. He was impatient for a conclusion. He doubted his return to England would have been so swift if some part of him was not anxious for an end to the running.   
  
He did know that someone was going to find him out. He counted up the number of ways it could happen. The obvious reason was if he forgot to take Polyjuice and he woke up beside Rosaline or a customer with the face of Draco Malfoy, wanted criminal. Another was if someone saw what the Butterbeer bottle contained, or asked for a drink, or if he spilled some.   
  
And there was Angus. There was something strange about the kid. Something _knowing_. Draco could see it all of the time, but never more so than when Angus called him ‘Mr Michel’ with a tiny pause after the ‘mister,’ as if he wanted to say another name. Not to mention that, in every one of his prodigious output of drawings, Draco had yellow hair and a bottle somewhere about his person. Potter thought they were charming and kept them pinned up on the wall behind his bed.  
  
If Draco had been a reporter in truth, he would have had a bestselling biography’s worth of material on his hands. Potter -- his burgeoning homosexuality, the relationship with a middle-aged researcher that would be easy to suppose, his un-hero-like and uncharitable rage against Severus Snape and every other Death Eater. Not many people harboured a great deal of sympathy for these people, but they expected a paragon like Potter do to it for them.  
  
Also his friends: Hermione McLaggen, the famously intelligent witch and wife of a wife-beater, whose two youngest children had hair more strawberry-blonde than sand. Ron Weasley, who turned up intermittently with his show-pony wife. Draco was sure he’d once seen Romilda's rings and bracelets on the society wives of long-lined, pure-blooded families whom his mother had had to tea quite often. Ginny Wood, the one-time Healer who was married to the most successful Quidditch player of the past five years and living in America for reasons undisclosed. She spent her husband’s earnings profligately yet without once mentioning his name.  
  
It was quite lucky for them that, of all the hordes of reporters -- albeit thinning in latter days -- to whom Potter could have taken a shine, he’d chosen the one who was a Death Eater in disguise and had no more intention of publishing his findings than he did of taking up tightrope walking.  
  
Stefano had been subdued ever since Draco had started visiting Potter, and Alexandre more than usually inquisitive. Draco had thought it wise to admit to a part of the truth: that he was interviewing Harry Potter. He didn’t say why and let the brothers assume that on the nights on which Draco didn’t come home, he was interviewing.   
  
Alexandre rarely stayed in for the evening. Draco guessed that this was due to his aversion to public displays of lust. Or, at least, displays of lust that involved his brother and a man he hated. On the rare nights that they did meet, Alexandre was always wearisomely curious about Harry Potter. Draco wasn't sure if this were merely a symptom of Potter's celebrity or something more ominous, but he didn't give Alexandre the chance to reveal his motives. Always a master of the cold brush-off, Draco's technique had been given a rare run for its money of recent times -- but Draco was still sure that he was succeeding.  
  
It was to Draco’s benefit that Stefano didn’t think to question what kind of interviews one could hold at midnight, but Draco couldn’t help despising him a little all the same. Stefano was good company in more than one way. And Draco needed his freshly plucked hair, because Polyjuice didn’t function with hair dead longer than a day. He just didn’t feel particularly attached to him.  
  
When Stefano proposed getting a job, Draco shrugged. The next day Stefano arrived home exhausted from a long day working in McDonald’s, the speed with which he secured the position suggesting to Draco that he’d planned and applied for it long before he’d mentioned it to his boyfriend. It suited Draco, because he too was tired. He felt it necessary to continue his _affaire_ with Rosaline in case she passed on any more juicy tidbits, but it also meant that he had to prowl the streets afterwards to rid himself of her memory.  
  
When Stefano proposed trying to find a place to rent so as to get out of the hotel, Draco was more wary. He still hadn’t decided whether he was going to leave or stay, but he didn’t need to be tied down whilst making the decision. It could be detrimental to his chances of escape.   
  
“I don’t know,” he demurred. “I’m not sure if I want to stay in England long enough to put down a deposit on a flat.”  
  
“Well, what do you want to do?” demanded Stefano.   
  
“Oh, one of the hard questions,” groaned Draco. He threw his head back and burrowed it against the crest of the sofa.   
  
“No, no,” said Stefano. He shook his head to add emphasis. He climbed on Draco’s knees to place both hands in the centre of his chest, presumably for the same reason. “Not a hard question.” He pressed his lips, so very soft, to the curve of Draco’s jaw. It felt good, but his knee dug into Draco’s stomach rather painfully and distracted him. “What do you want to do?”  
  
“I’m getting some ideas right about now.” Draco clasped his hands behind Stefano’s back and drew him closer, so that he lost his balance and moved his knee away from Draco’s small intestine. Stefano felt exciting and warm, as he always did. Draco felt a thrill of something almost like familiarity as he rolled over so that Stefano was lying below him, his eyes languorous and his breath a cool blessing on Draco’s neck.  
  
“Andrew,” sighed Stefano. Draco stroked the skin between his buttons. “Do you love me?”  
  
The question brought Draco up short, not so much because he didn’t expect it but because his mouth protested against an easy answer. The soothing ‘Of course I do’ just wouldn’t come, and Stefano’s eyes were a tear-filled warning. Draco’s mind leapt to Potter’s words about what he’d give up for the person he loved. No; that wasn’t right. It was what he _could_ give up because the person would be enough to replace it. Draco tried to think if Stefano would replace the buzz he got from touching strangers in the dark, the curious empty freedom it bestowed.   
  
_Of course he wouldn’t_ , his mind said scornfully. Draco hadn’t really thought he would -- but why had lying become a trial?  
  
He waited too long for his mouth to do his bidding. Stefano pushed him off and was pulling his clothes straight, a wild look in his eyes.   
  
“Where are you going?” attempted Draco. He tried at once to calm Stefano and the merry-go-round of his own thoughts.  
  
“Out!” exclaimed Stefano, in a fine fit of hot-blooded temper. “Away from _you_!” A moment later, the door slamming put the proof to his words.  
  
Draco covered his eyes with his hands and indulged in a heart-felt groan. He’d been so comfortable with Stefano up until now. He really should wait until Stefano got home and then apologise to him -- perhaps let him take charge of the night’s entertainments.   
  
Draco stood up and brushed down his woollen jumper, finding some of Stefano’s hairs between his fingers.  
  
One thing he really shouldn’t do was drink Polyjuice and go out.  
  
Which was why he did precisely that.  
  
  
:: ::  
  
  
There was something charged and electric about the night air as Draco stepped into it, for the last time as Stefano. He knew instinctively that by choosing to go out, he’d put paid to his dalliance with Stefano’s body. He was more intrigued by the fact that he knew what ‘electric’ meant -- it being a word that he would have disdained to even think, let alone say, once upon a time.  
  
He pulled his hood down, Apparated and trod the distance to Blackweather Alley, all with the feeling that he was going to a gallows of his own construction. The thought managed to excite and not scare him.  
  
He was too keyed up to settle for the first man who approached him, so he spent a long time wandering around, tossing Stefano’s silky hair and eyeing up prospectors and generally being a disgusting flirt. He got more than one longing, desperate stare, so the feeling that he was being watched didn’t trouble him. That was, until Alexandre stepped out of the shadows with a face like death and squeezed him by the arm.  
  
They looked at each other until Draco felt his eyes would drop out. He watched Alexandre under the flickering enchanted torches, which cast out lurid pink, blue and green light. Finally the hoots and catcalls of his fellow whores caught his attention. They were asking Draco if he'd been enchanted, and wasn’t his customer a pretty one, he should charge extra for a face like that.  
  
So Draco said the first thing that came to mind, and drawled, “What’s it gonna be, then?”  
  
As Alexandre’s expression shifted to incorporate incredulity, and his mouth formed the word ‘Andrew?’, Draco finally remembered why Polyjuice never succeeded in fooling the family and friends of the victim.  
  
He’d worked for a long time to get the right voice for customers: never shrill, never demanding, but one that called up descriptions like sultry and velvety and the best night of your life, cheap at the price. He’d had to get it right, because otherwise he didn’t eat.  
  
Most of all, it was entirely his own.  
  
  
:: ::  
  
  
Alexandre paced up and down with the anger of a caged panther. Draco looked down at his hands, which were turning from toffee-coloured to blotchy white coffee, and waited for Alexandre to speak. He’d be damned if he said the first word.  
  
“I’d just like to make it clear,” said Alexandre at long last, by which time Draco’s hands were almost uniformly milk, “that I don’t frequent places like that. Ever.”  
  
“Except for tonight,” observed Draco languidly. He brushed his hands together as if that would make the transformation even. He was always afraid of getting a bad batch of Polyjuice that would leave him stuck somewhere in between Stefano and Draco, a hideous hybrid of both.   
  
“Yes,” hissed Alexandre. “Except for tonight. Do you know _why_ , Andrew?”  
  
Draco paused for effect, then sent him a sweet smile. “You wanted some hot, tender loving? God knows you’ve been deprived as long as I’ve known you.”  
  
Draco hadn’t known that Alexandre could look so angry. He leaned in close enough to Draco to shake him hard by the shoulders. Spit flew in his face as Alexandre shouted.   
  
“No, that was _not_ why! I met my brother looking like the sky had fallen in and it turns out you had a fight. I came to confront you for your aggravated mistreatment of my only family, and you were leaving. I follow you to the Leaky, and who do I see coming out of the toilets? My own brother, looking very sneaky and not quite as heartbroken as he’d been an hour before! I was suspicious. Even more so when he went down Knockturn Alley! I can tell a place like that no matter what country it’s in. Then …”  
  
He ran out of breath there, still shaking Draco gently from side to side. “I couldn’t believe it,” he whispered. “My own brother, a prostitute.”  
  
“It must have come as a great comfort to you to discover that he wasn’t, after all,” murmured Draco. He plucked Alexandre’s fingers from his shoulders and moved away. He looked in the mirror over the fireplace. His face stared back. It had two almost circular spots of pink in the centre of his cheeks, but was otherwise as it ever was. Bony and hard, his hair as substantial as melted fairy floss.   
  
Alexandre was behind him in the mirror, looking like he was on the verge of tears.  
  
“And you!” exclaimed Alexandre, visibly pulling himself together. “Enchanting yourself to look like my brother is bad enough, but _selling_ yourself! I can’t believe it of Stefano, letting --”  
  
“Then don’t believe it,” interrupted Draco, “because he doesn’t know.”  
  
If he’d assumed that Alexandre would be comforted by this knowledge, he’d have assumed wrong. It was rather fortunate, then, that Draco didn’t care enough about Alexandre one way or the other to worry about his possible future thoughts.   
  
“You haven’t told him?” he gasped. “Yet you feel free to spread your diseases --”  
  
“God help me,” muttered Draco. He rolled his eyes at his reflection. “You do remember that I’m a wizard, don’t you? I know you’re not a Healer or, it seems, possessing of a modicum of intelligence, but there are charms and wards to prevent that sort of thing. Even married, heterosexual couples need to use them -- as you might one day discover, if you ever get that stick removed from your arse.”  
  
“What,” said Alexandre, breathing heavily, “makes you think that makes it any better?”  
  
“I don’t know, Alexandre,” sighed Draco. He tilted his head to see if a different fall of light made his skin look any more lustrous. It didn't. “You were the one protesting that I have the modern take on leprosy. I didn’t hear you make any other objections to my profession.”  
  
“Your profession?” sneered Alexandre. “That’s what they call it, do they?”  
  
“No, generally ‘they’ call it a way to eat.” Draco pulled up strands of his hair and watched them float down with something close to exhausted fascination. The movement wafted the smell of his body closer to his nostrils, and he winced at it.  
  
Stepping away from the mirror and Alexandre, he yanked at the tiny buttons on the mandarin neckline of his robes. Being a pale blue with gold stitching, they had suited Stefano extremely well, but they made Draco look like clouds against an overcast sky.  
  
“What do you think you’re doing?” demanded Alexandre from behind him.  
  
Draco rested his chin against his shoulder for a moment as he continued pulling buttons out of their tiny, embroidered holes. “Going for a shower, unless you have some moral objection against that as well.”  
  
“I don’t have a moral --” Alexandre almost roared. Draco could hear him swallowing, as he bunched up the hem of his robes. “I’m not finished talking to you!”  
  
Draco turned to glare at him as he pulled his arms out of the sleeves. “There’s no law against talking to someone in the shower. Just don’t _whisper_.”  
  
“I don’t intend to whisper!” This time it was a yell, but the end of it was muffled to Draco because he was pulling his robes over his ears by then.   
  
Leaving the robes in a crumple on the carpet, Draco stalked past Alexandre and into the bathroom. He left the door open, so Alexandre could choose or not to follow him. Whatever happened, Draco could not be said to have coerced anyone.  
  
The feeling of hot spray against his skin made Draco imagine that he was dissolving. He leaned back against the slick tiles and closed his eyes. The water drummed as loud as marching band. It drowned out even Draco’s thoughts, until Alexandre spoke.  
  
He sounded uncomfortable. Draco doubted there would be any shouting this time. He pulled back the pebble-glass door a little way and poked his head out. Alexandre was sitting on the toilet seat, his legs crossed and bouncing with a nervous tic.  
  
“Sorry, what did you say?” Draco shook soap out of his ears.  
  
“I said,” said Alexandre, regaining something of his earlier imperial rage, “that I don’t understand why you deceived Stefano like this.”  
  
“You think he’d have preferred to know that I sleep with other men for money?” Draco splashed his face with water.  
  
“I think you do a little more than sleep,” retorted Alexandre.  
  
“And I think it’s a little more than you need to know -- being on the other side, sexually speaking,” said Draco. He crossed his arms against his wet chest. Alexandre coughed and looked away. The side of his jaw quilted. Draco guessed that he was clenching his teeth.  
  
“To go back to your question,” he said without looking at Draco, “yes. I value honesty in a relationship.”  
  
“God!” hissed Draco. “Since when did it become about you? This is me and Stefano we’re talking about, not me and you.”  
  
More patches appeared in the quilt and Alexandre shifted about, crossing his own arms so closely that his fingers scrabbled at his back.  
  
“So that’s how it is, is it?” Draco raised his eyebrows, sluicing water out of them as he did so. He leaned forward and turned off the taps. “It is about me and you?”  
  
“I didn’t say that!” snapped Alexandre, his heels bouncing off the floor so often it looked like he was performing a private homage to Michael Flatley.  
  
“True,” agreed Draco. He stepped out of the shower in a trail of rivulets. His hips swayed of their own accord as he approached Alexandre and dropped to his haunches before him. Alexandre still didn’t meet his eye, going so far as twisting his head almost one hundred and eighty degrees to avoid it.   
  
“Alexandre,” breathed Draco, knowing that Alexandre would feel the word against his cheek. “You are a huge, _huge_ hypocrite.”  
  
“Me?” Alexandre jumped up. “ _I_ don’t go -- whoring myself out under enchantment and lie about it!”  
  
Draco had scrambled away to avoid getting Alexandre’s knees in his face. He now lay back on the bathmat and laughed up at him. “How did I lie? Did either of you ever ask me if I were a prostitute and I said ‘no?’ I think you’ll find I didn’t.”  
  
“That’s not the point!” Alexandre was clearly struggling; his fists were clenching and unclenching and sweat was beading along the curls of his hairline. The thought licking it off for him was swift but powerful -- enough to bolster Draco for the rest of the night. “It was a lie of omission!”  
  
“Oh, you should have been a lawyer.” Draco lay back and stretched his arms until his fingers brushed the cistern. His toes knocked against Alexandre’s -- he couldn’t remember whose rule it was, to take shoes off at the door. Maybe it was a Spanish custom. In any case, he apologised for the inadvertent touch, although not with any great sincerity.  
  
“Never mind,” said Alexandre, his voice husky. “Why would I make a good lawyer?” He was playing with his tie as he spoke, his fingers undoing the knot whether or not his brain realised it.  
  
“Because they’re very skilled at lying to themselves.” Draco sat up with a smirk. “Otherwise, how could they defend murderers and rapists?”  
  
“Someone has to,” said Alexandre. His breathing came in erratic gulps as Draco’s fingers inspected the arch of his foot. “That’s justice.”  
  
“Justice,” echoed Draco, reaching for Alexandre's belt buckle. He’d always found blackmail to be far more reliable.  
  
  
:: ::  
  
  
Draco lay on his stomach, his bare arms and legs stretched over the stripped mattress as far as they could go. He drifted in and out of uneasy sleep. His dreams, when they did come, were lit in flashes as if they were taking place in a drug-ridden nightclub.   
  
When he awoke properly Stefano was there, his taut face looming out of the darkness. His sleek hair was ruffled up like a sulky cockatoo’s, his bee-stung mouth bleeding lipstick.  
  
Draco scrambled up, licking his lips and feeling unaccountably nervous. Stefano held out a hand, which shook a little. He gazed at it with his bottom lip hanging open, looking unclear as to what it had to do with him. On impulse, Draco caught hold of it and held it to the side of his cheek.  
  
“I slept,” announced Stefano, his fingers curling around Draco’s jaw, “with a girl. Yep. Went all the way.”  
  
Draco moved Stefano’s hand so that the palm was covering his own mouth and brushed his lips against it. If Stefano had been shaking before, he now bore a resemblance to a poplar in a force-ten gale. His skin convulsed under Draco’s lips, as if he was being administered electric shocks. It didn’t take much for Draco to draw him down on to the bed next to him, or to make it so that he was lying with Draco’s arms around him.  
  
Draco smoothed the tossed hair back from Stefano’s hot, damp forehead and proceeded to bathe it in feathery kisses. The light was dim, its sole source the streetlamps creeping in through the slatted blinds. As Draco blotted away Stefano’s tears with the pad of his thumb and willed back a yawn, his watering eyes obliged him and blurred Stefano’s face.   
  
Draco closed his eyes, put his lips to Stefano’s ear as he stroked his back, and pretended as hard as he could. “I love you,” he said.  
  
A last, gasping shudder passed through Stefano’s body. He clung to Draco as if the world would disappear if he let him go. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.  
  
Draco pulled his head back to indulge in one of his favourite pastimes, outlining Stefano’s mouth with his fingers. “What for?”  
  
“I cheated on you. I wanted to hurt you as much as you hurt me.” Stefano's hand strayed to Draco’s hip, as if lead there by an inexorable force.  
  
“I don’t care,” replied Draco. It was nothing less than the absolute truth, but Stefano took it as absolution. He smiled his bewitching smile -- the one that Draco had found so useful, the one that had made him want Stefano in the first place. A phrase floated into Draco’s memory, recited in Paul’s voice. He had been a student of literature and a closet dipsomaniac. _There’s daggers in men’s smiles._  
  
To banish these disturbing thoughts, Draco put Stefano’s mouth to better use and remembered not to call him Alexandre.  
  
  
  



	11. Chapter 11

Draco tucked the package under his armpit, nodded at the poker-playing guards and shouldered open the door to what he’d come to call Potter’s laboratory. The stumpy witches around the tables barely spared him a glance these days. Draco marvelled: so little time it took for them to get used to a stranger in their midst. What would they say when the truth came out? Would they look at Potter with pity, or with sympathy?  
  
Draco forgot, for a moment, which of the secret truths he was thinking about. Of course, they _already_ looked at Potter with pity. When they found out that he’d been conned by Draco Malfoy, they would pity him even more. Although the Weasel would probably be most enraged on Potter’s behalf, and offer him his wife for the night.  
  
The purple bedspread was flat, but Draco knew better than to panic. Sitting against the bed on the side that faced away from the laboratory was the scant privacy that the room offered, and Potter grasped it whenever he could. It surprised Draco a little that Potter would even have need of it. He had always struck Draco as someone who’d revel in any kind of attention, even that gained by occupying a sickbed in the centre of a busy experiment. But it seemed to not be the case.  
  
“Morning.” Draco dropped into an Indian squat with only a small grunt. When he was fourteen, he could do that without even thinking about it, but the older he’d got the more thinking every action required. Perhaps that’s why it was called ‘grown-up’ and not ‘finished.’   
  
“Hey,” returned Potter. His mouth drooped but his voice was determined to be cheery. “What’s it really like outside? I’ve been watching and they have three-week rotations, with different weather schedules. This week it’s two days of sun, one day overcast, and four days of straight rain.”  
  
“Straight rain, eh?” said Draco, taking in the even spatters on the window. “How do you know?”  
  
Potter blushed. Still. “I meant it’s been raining for three days straight, not --”  
  
“Yes, yes.” Draco waved a hand to dismiss Potter's burbling. “Actually, it’s stinking hot outside.” He tweaked his tight tunic away from his body, cursing the fact that mandarin collars were so in fashion as to be ubiquitous. Usually Draco avoided trends, knowing that they tended to mark out the wearer, but in this case _not_ wearing a mandarin collar would be noticeable. He fiddled with the seed-pearl buttons, dying to open them.  
  
Potter shivered a little. “It’s quite chilly in here. Maybe because of that.”  
  
“Air conditioning.” Draco nodded. “It’s a relief, after outside.”  
  
“It’s not fair!” Potter burst out suddenly. “I’m sick of being stuck here! I hate it!”  
  
“Really?” Draco kept his tone neutral. “It’s not that bad. You have food, and clothes --” Potter pulled at his pyjamas, looking irritable “-- your friends visit you nearly too often, and of course you get to hold interviews for your adoring public.”  
  
“I think I’d swap all of that for one walk in Diagon Alley, or the grounds of Hogwarts.” Potter took a huge gulp of air as if that would compensate.   
  
“You’re selling yourself short,” said Draco. “Swapping everything that’s keeping you alive, and many things that make you happy, in return for a few minutes of being jostled by shoppers who are trying to get home in time to make supper, or by yipping kids? Rather you than me.”  
  
“Anywhere but here,” reiterated Potter, who had turns of the most impenetrable stubbornness. Draco rolled his eyes, but knew better than to reason further with him.  
  
“I have something that might distract you, if you’d let it,” he said. “It's not a cigarette -- smoking is a habit you should really consider taking up for your health -- but it'll do.”  
  
“What?” Potter's chin had slumped on to his knees. “I know enough about cigarettes to know they’d only be good for your health if you were already dying.”  
  
“Did I say they were _good_ for you?” countered Draco, unperturbed. He twisted around to catch up the package, which he had stowed on the bed, and started to unfasten it in his lap.  
  
“What’s this? Can I help?” asked Potter. He looked alert for the first time since Draco had come in, so Draco let him yank off the Spellotape bindings -- although why augmenting Potter’s good humour should be of the slightest concern to Draco was a mystery. Draco hated mysteries almost as much as treacle.  
  
Bright coloured cloth spilled out over both their laps and the small triangle of floor tiles in between. Potter snatched it up and let it run through his fingers. Draco was rather glad that he’d chosen such tactile fabrics -- only because they felt good under his hands as well.   
  
“You remember last week, I took your measurements,” began Draco. He frowned, realising he’d backed himself into a conversation cul-de-sac. He did not want to talk about touching Potter, either to Potter or to anyone else.  
  
“I remember,” replied Potter, his voice low and too intense. Draco squirmed and coughed, finding that his mouth was as dry as a miniature Sahara.   
  
“Well, here are your robes!” he said. He winced at the tone of his voice, which was one much favoured by female daytime television presenters.   
  
“Thanks. Wow. They’re really … nice. Yeah.” Potter looked at the robes and grinned. “Nice.”  
  
“Potter!” groaned Draco, lacing his fingers over his eyes. “These robes are more than just ‘nice!’ They are classy, they are well-cut, they are top-of-the-range, they are chic and stylish and cool! God!”  
  
All at once he felt Potter’s hands on his own. Given his earlier complaints, it was not surprising that they were cool. Draco felt like he’d plunged face-first into snow.   
  
Potter tugged Draco’s hands away from his eyes and grinned into his face. “That’s what I said. Nice.”  
  
“I really need to buy you a thesaurus, next,” grumbled Draco, well aware that his gruff voice was a poor cover for the way his eyes were skittering from one point to another. From Potter’s thick sooty lashes to the shadow beside his nose to the dip of his neck. Draco was not ready to acknowledge the fact that, right now, he wanted to kiss Harry Potter -- kiss him long and hard and wet and awkward and any other way he could have it.   
  
He settled on Potter’s eyes at last, which was a difficult enough task given that he had demurely lowered them. His long eyelashes, not to mention his glasses, did an excellent job of masking them. A slight squeeze on Potter's wrist from Draco’s fingers, which Potter still held captive, sufficed to make him look up momentarily. It was enough.  
  
Everything -- the cant of his head, his unsteady breathing, his trembling lips -- was gathered up and the cumulative effect shone out through Potter's eyes. Draco had seen enough molten lust to know it when it was staring him in the face. The blood pounding against his ears, Draco inclined his head towards Potter.   
  
But, amazingly, Potter was slipping his hands away and rubbing his cheek as if to remove the pink tinge. Draco’s first thought was one of astonishment that Potter was able to break a connexion like that. He couldn’t have _not_ felt it.   
  
The self-disgust, when it came a second later, broke over Draco like a tidal wave. He’d been about to kiss Harry Potter -- he’d been on the verge of _wanting_ it. It was wrong, horrible and twisted and wrong. As Draco turned to Potter -- to hit him or bawl him out or taunt him in some way -- he saw the vulnerable curve of Potter’s neck as he bent over the robes.  
  
And he realised he still wanted to. He wanted to offer his mouth up to Potter’s service; he wanted to cover the downy skin of his neck with kisses until Potter was squirming under him and begging him to stop.  
  
Draco scrambled to his feet, dizzy with lust. His knees had been transformed to water without his will or his consent. He was going to scream or to throw up. Draco had never realised that _not_ being kissed could be so disorienting. He wondered how on earth he’d survived his formative years. He must have been walking around in a confused daze the entire time.  
  
“Do you mind if I put one on now?” asked Potter, breaking through the fog of arousal that was the current forecast on Planet Draco.   
  
“One what?” Draco pressed the heel of his hand to his temple and clutched the bed with the other, lest he collapse or something equally mortifying.  
  
“The robes.” Potter widened his eyes at Draco, making a moue of his lips to suggest that Draco was several years behind events. He only succeeded in focusing Draco’s attention on his mouth.  
  
“Of course, Potter.” Draco couldn’t have been more brusque if he’d actually intended to be. “They’re your bloody robes, you bloody well bought them.”  
  
“Are you okay?” Potter stood up with a red robe trailing from his grasp. It looked like a river of blood. “Have you taken ill or something?”  
  
“No. No.” Draco stumbled over his words in an effort to stop any other, more incriminating, ones from spilling out. “No. I just remembered that I have to do a thing. Yeah. So I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”  
  
“Sure,” said Potter, his brow creasing. Draco was swamped with a fresh onslaught of self-loathing.  
  
He made his way out and into Diagon Alley in a stupor, retrieving just enough survival instinct to duck into a shady doorway and wait for the effects of the Polyjuice Potion to wear off.   
  
It was a terrible feeling, knowing that he alone was to blame for his current suffering. Draco very much preferred to have someone else to blame for his predicaments. It made things so much neater.   
  
Draco groaned into his fist -- but not too loudly, fearing to attract unwanted attention. He should have hit Potter with a Stunning Charm -- or better yet, a Killing Curse -- the moment he was granted access to him, not hung about him like a lovestruck fan. But Polyjuice was like a narcotic. It enabled him to escape into another realm, one where Potter was normal and he was normal and there were no feuds and hatred and war. Where, hopefully for Draco’s doppleganger, the only reason Potter would be bed bound was if Draco had tied him there for reasons entirely personal.  
  
He wasn’t certain how long he remained in the doorway bemoaning his fate, but the sky darkened as he did so. He slowly became aware that he’d strayed unthinking to his usual hangout in Blackweather Alley. Although no one would technically recognise him, people didn’t just come here for the sightseeing and the tasteful souvenirs. He’d have to leave soon or risk being propositioned -- and caught.  
  
 _It's not so bad_ , Draco thought, sidling out into the flare of a blue torch and inspecting his robes. They were smeared in the back from his close association with the soot-blackened brick wall, so he cleaned them on autopilot while his mind ran over reassuring facts. He’d got a bit of a crush on Potter; that was easy to get over. He had numerous methods for erasing troublesome romances. At the moment, they were called Stefano, Rosaline, Alexandre and anyone with a few Galleons burning a hole in his pocket. It was just a matter of choosing one and Potter would be gone from his head faster than you could say ‘Sodomy.’  
  
Heaving a relieved sigh, Draco dropped his robes with a swish and took stock of the street. To the left, there were a few trawlers, most of whom were absorbed in the early trade. To the right, all was quiet.  
  
And straight ahead -- “How do _you_ know?” a mental Potter accused him -- were the hooded brown eyes of none other than Blaise Zabini.  
  
  
:: ::  
  
  
Draco fiddled with a beer mat. It advertised Heineken, which was odd considering that all that was on offer at the bar was Budweiser, a dubious looking home brew and glass bottles of lemonade that were more dust than soft drink. He couldn’t decide if the choice of location was a good or a bad sign. There was little chance of Draco being recognised among the pub’s exceedingly seedy and sotted patrons, but on the other hand they probably wouldn’t notice bare-faced homicide either.   
  
Blaise returned from the bar, balancing two overflowing pints between his long fingers. Bending at the knees with the gracefulness of a ballet dancer, he deposited a pint on one of the few beer mats near Draco that were not shredded. He straightened his own beer mat before allowing his beer to touch it. Draco remembered that Blaise had always been fussy to the point of insanity. He and Achilles were of a pair.  
  
“So.” Blaise paused to take a long draught of beer and give Draco more time to stew. “So. Draco Malfoy. Well, well, well.”  
  
Draco inspected his pint. He didn’t really like beer any more than he did cocktails, except for when he was trying to get drunk. He had no intention of getting anything but away from Blaise, who was wearing an expression recalling that of a feral cat with a one-winged bird between its paws. Draco tried for a moment to summon the old arousal that he’d harboured, uselessly, for so many years, but Potter seemed to have temporarily short-circuited it.   
  
At Draco's silence, Blaise dropped his carefree smile but not his casual posture. “I want to know what you’re doing here.”  
  
“That’s easy,” replied Draco. “You brought me here. In order to ply me with mediocre beer and be mysteriously menacing, it seems. That was fun in school, but right now I’m valuing strawberry-flavoured candour, so either kill me, rough me up or let me walk out now.”  
  
“You,” said Blaise, tapping the table with the edge of a beer mat, “are in no position to be making demands.”  
  
Draco eyed him with some distaste. “You want sex first, is it?”  
  
Blaise let out a bark of over-hearty laughter. “You overestimate yourself. Even if you dragged yourself out of your Muggle-consorting, trashy, whoring ways, you’d still be below my standards.”  
  
“Whoring?” echoed Draco, wondering how Blaise knew.   
  
“Don’t play the innocent with me, Draco Malfoy,” sneered Blaise. “Nobody hangs around Blackweather Alley unless they have very good reason.”  
  
“Oh.” Draco digested this. It might mean that Blaise was working on an assumption, or it might mean that he wasn’t saying all he knew. It didn’t greatly matter either way, but neither did it help to cure Draco’s underlying sense of unease.   
  
“Yes,” continued Blaise, on something of a roll, “you have fallen far below estimations, even given that you weren’t particularly attractive as a child. Is doing it for money some way of compensating for the fact that no one would want you otherwise?”  
  
Draco thought of Stefano, crying because Draco didn’t love him, and couldn’t help but laugh. “Careful, Blaise, someone listening might think you were jealous.”  
  
“Hardly,” sniffed Blaise. Draco could tell he’d hit a sore spot. “I have no interest in discussing your tawdry sex life. I want to know what you’re doing back in England. I understand there were very pressing reasons for you to stay away.”  
  
“Indeed there were.” Draco dipped a finger into his pint. “This beer tastes like crap, by the way. Are you sure you got Budweiser and not that home brew?”  
  
“Quite sure,” snapped Blaise. “I asked for the home brew. He’d probably have given it anyway.”  
  
“Ew.” Draco pushed his pint back. “Well, this has been lovely. I must be going, though. I have a tawdry sex life to keep up, you know.”  
  
Unexpectedly, Blaise smiled. Draco stared. “Ah, come on, stay where you are. I’ll admit I was suspicious at first. I had Theodore Nott try to throttle me at a dinner party a few years ago. Meeting someone who's an ‘old friend’ doesn’t necessarily mean you’re safe.”  
  
“Trust me, if you were to die by my hands it’d be of old age,” said Draco dryly. “So where is Theo now?”  
  
“In Azkaban, attempted murder.” At Draco’s look, Blaise added, “Oh, not mine, someone else’s. No one the world would have missed, unlike if he’d succeeded with me.”  
  
“Why on earth did Theo try to kill you, though? Was it over the war?”  
  
Blaise looked blank for a moment. “Oh! You mean against You-Know-Who. God, no. That’s ancient history. No, thing is, he thought I was screwing his wife. He was married to a French bint from Beauxbatons, tits and hair and all the rest. Lord knows how he got her -- my theory is she couldn’t speak English.”  
  
“Oh, so you weren’t having it off with her.”   
  
“Don’t be stupid, Draco, of course I was,” said Blaise scornfully.   
  
Draco grinned. That Blaise was as incorrigible as ever, and as promiscuous, boded well. It meant that he hadn’t changed in fundamentals despite his strong-arming techniques, which were new. “What about the rest -- Greg and Vince and Pansy?”  
  
“Let me think.” Blaise sucked at his teeth. They were very white. Draco felt a faint stirring of challenge. “Greg’s in Azkaban, for the usual. Terrorist, they call it nowadays. Watching too much Muggle Sky News, if you ask me. Vince was killed in one of those sweeps the Aurors did during the year after You-Know-Who fell. Er. I suppose you heard about your mother?”  
  
Draco nodded and Blaise continued, sounding relieved. “Pansy went out to the Far East somewhere, to marry a filthy rich fakir. Last time I heard from her, she was learning how to make rope ladders that went into the sky and charm snakes, and sounded disgustingly happy.”  
  
“She wanted to marry me once,” said Draco, in tones of wonderment.  
  
“Wouldn’t have done her much good, would it?” sniggered Blaise. “You being a flaming poofter and all.”  
  
“We would have survived. Women aren’t that different, apart from being the wrong way around.”  
  
“Get away!”   
  
“But men are better at blow jobs,” added Draco. He frowned as Blaise choked down air. “Stop that, or I’ll think you’ve never had one.”  
  
“From a man? No.” Blaise rubbed his throat.  
  
“You’re missing out,” said Draco. “By the way, why are we in a Muggle bar? Not ten minutes ago you were lambasting me for consorting with Muggles.”  
  
Blaise looked uncomfortable. “You of all people should know about my love affair with the hyperbolic lifestyle. Muggles have their uses. And I was angry with you. The way you disappeared without warning --!”  
  
“So did you,” Draco reminded him.  
  
“I did _not_ ,” said Blaise. “I just happened to go on an extended holiday with my family to southern Italy and it was fortunate enough to end right with the war, one way or another.”  
  
“It’s still no excuse for hypocrisy,” said Draco. “Besides, for all that you were giving out reams about prostitutes, you were also in Blackweather Alley. And people don’t hang about there without good reason.” At Blaise’s narrowed eyes, he smirked. “It’s okay. You’re desperate, right? That’s what they all say. Or lonely. Or just been dumped. I can point out the best ones if you’d like.”  
  
“What? You aren’t the best?” Blaise raised his eyebrows.  
  
“As you pointed out before, I’m not attractive enough for that.”   
  
“And do you get paid much?”   
  
“You only get to ask that if you’re buying, I’m afraid,” said Draco. “So what are you up to?”  
  
“I work in the Ministry, actually. Department of Backlog and Boring.” At Draco’s confused expression, Blaise supplied, “Archives. I get paid well, though.”  
  
“How much?”  
  
“You only get to ask that if you’re a civil servant,” said Blaise, with a very obvious wink. “I don’t believe that you’re only back here to visit your old haunts. What’s the real reason?”  
  
Draco flicked his thumbnail. In spite of -- or perhaps because of -- the camaraderie, Draco wasn’t fooled. Blaise had never been this interested in Draco; it had always been the other way around. So he told what currently passed for the truth. “I’m hoping to get into Harry Potter’s pants,” he admitted, dipping his finger into Blaise’s beer.  
  
Blaise threw back his head and laughed. After a beat, Draco joined him. "Same as ever,” said Blaise, shaking his head. Draco smiled a little, licking his little finger free from beer. A calculating look stole over Blaise’s face.  
  
“But on a serious note, my old friend,” he said, “ _how_ much for a blow job?”


	12. Chapter 12

Draco discovered -- on climbing the stairs of St Mungo’s -- that he hadn’t been able to spell away every bruise after all. At least ten came out of the woodwork as he creaked up to Potter’s laboratory. He might have got all of Blaise’s, if only Stefano hadn’t caught him in the midst of a red-hot shower to steam away the evidence.   
  
In the haste brought on by Draco’s limp wetness, Stefano had forgotten the danger inherent in running on slippery tiles. They were both among the walking wounded that morning. Unfortunately for Draco’s general health and mobility, almost cracking his head open on a sink had not done much to cool Stefano’s ardour.  
  
Draco was in no mood to countenance either the sickly sweet shivers his stomach produced on spotting Potter, or to deal with any of Potter’s friends. This, he presumed, was precisely why what met his eyes was Potter, stripped down to flimsy grey boxers and embroiled in an argument with Weasley and a grey-haired man Draco didn’t recognise.  
  
 _I don’t need this, I really don’t need this_ , chanted Draco’s inner monologue, but his eyes didn’t care. They feasted on the clean lines of Potter’s legs, his hollowed stomach, his beautiful neck, but most of all on the way the spare cloth bulged a little at his groin. Potter still looked like a boy, but where it counted he was very much a man.   
  
“I am perfectly entitled to wear what I want, Ron!” Potter was shouting as Draco approached. “It’s not up to you to decide!”  
  
“I’m just saying, mate, that it’s kind of inappropriate given that you’re sick --”  
  
“I’M NOT SICK!” bellowed Potter. “If I am, no one’s told me! Oh. Er. Hello, Michel.” He looked shame-faced and immediately tried to cover himself with the dark green robes. This only allowed Draco to focus on his still exposed, coffee-coloured nipples, but he didn’t tell Potter that.   
  
“Oh, that just puts the tin hat on it, that does,” grumbled Weasley. “He’s _still_ here?”  
  
“He brought me the robes, too,” said Potter, sounding defiant and forgetting his modesty. Draco used the opportunity to ogle Potter’s bottom while his back was turned. It was a bad idea, because it happened to be among the nicest Draco had ever seen, even counting magazines. “Which is more than you did!”  
  
“I didn’t know you wanted them!” Weasley defended himself.  
  
“God, Potter.” Draco strolled over to Weasley and stroked his sleeve. “Look at this travesty! You really wanted him dressing you? For shame. He shops with his eyes closed, I guarantee it.”  
  
“Er.” Potter looked nonplussed. Draco smiled into Weasley’s boiling face and turned his attention to the man seated and watching the commotion with a faint smile.  
  
“Hello. I’m Michel Rodriguez, and you are?” Draco held out his hand.  
  
“Remus Lupin, at your service,” replied the man. He grasped Draco’s hand in a firm, dry grip. Draco winked at him and, in one swift movement, bent his head to kiss the man’s wrist.  
  
“A Spanish custom,” he explained, waving off Weasley’s fully audible protests about contagious queerness. “If the man is worthy, that is.”  
  
“You have insulted half the room,” Potter pointed out from behind him.  
  
“Not at all, you have every chance to earn your stripes,” said Draco. “Assenting to be my willing slave would be a good start.”  
  
“And what did _I_ do to earn such an honour?” asked Remus.  
  
“Oh, you presented me with a wonderful opportunity to piss off Weasley here,” returned Draco lightly.   
  
“Good lord, that’s a strong reaction.” Remus sounded surprised. “Have you and Mr We -- I mean, Ron, here, got some previous history?”  
  
“No!” Too vehement. Draco tempered it with, “No, indeed. It was simply a case of instant mutual dislike.”  
  
“Ron, you do seem to have a knack for that,” remarked Remus. “I recall a certain Mr Malfoy to whom you took against in much the same way.”  
  
“Malfoy was a poncy stuck-up git,” responded Weasley, with characteristic violence. “I was completely justified in hating his guts.”  
  
“Am I to take it that Mr Rodriguez is also, ah, a poncy stuck-up git?” inquired Remus, with a delicate look at Draco. At once, Draco remembered who he was. He used to wear such a look in Defence Against the Dark Arts classes, when Draco had said something impossibly brash, or Blaise something impossibly snobby, or Pansy something impossibly stupid.   
  
Weasley treated Draco to a long, hard stare. “Nope. _He’s_ a gitty stuck-up ponce.”   
  
Seeming pleased with this piece of symmetrical syntax, he beamed around at the assembled company.  
  
In the intervening time, Potter had scrambled the dark green robes over his head, a fact that Draco hadn’t failed to notice or appreciate. Now flattening down his hair, Potter had a glint in his eye that brought back strong memories of Hogwarts -- when Potter used to put a hand to his wand as if he’d like to curse Draco into a million slimy pieces.  
  
Not that it could happen now. Draco felt a brief shot of regret that no matter how provoking Weasley was to Potter, there was no way Potter could curse him. It was washed away by a now habitual, but nonetheless horrifying, heartbeat of sympathy for Potter’s plight.  
  
“Ron.” Potter smiled with gritted teeth. “Mr Rodriguez will only be with us for a short time. Would it kill you to be polite to him? Or if you can’t be polite, be silent.”  
  
Weasley gaped at him. “What’s this? Have you turned into Hermione?”  
  
Potter did all but click his tongue. He turned to Draco. “I see you’ve met Remus. He was a friend of my father’s and a teacher at Hogwarts for a year.”  
  
“Let me guess -- Defence Against the Dark Arts?” Draco gave his most charming smile.   
  
“That’s amazing, how did you know?” asked Potter.  
  
“Humph, everyone knows about the one-year curse You-Know-Who put on that job,” snorted Weasley. Draco hadn’t and longed to ask more, but he preferred to let Ron secure his alibi for him.  
  
“So I was right?” he said. Remus nodded. “Then you knew Potter when he was at school? That’s would be an intriguing angle for our readers.”  
  
“I’ve allowed Michel to interview me for the Spanish _Daily Prophet_ , Remus,” intervened Potter, pulling down the sleeves of his robes. They were highly fashionable, with tight cuffs and puffy sleeves that flopped in what was meant to be a very dashing and mediaeval manner. Like most extreme fashion it mainly just looked silly; but Draco thought that if anyone could carry off the knight-at-rest look, it would be Potter.  
  
Draco tore his gaze away from Potter’s wrists to find that Remus was regarding him with an opaque gaze. A more still man Draco had never met. Remus looked coiled up, as if he was restraining himself from leaping about like a maniac. Draco remembered that he was a confirmed werewolf and felt a little quiver of fear.   
  
At length, Remus spoke. “I’d be willing, with Harry’s permission, to answer any questions you might have. Although I fear that I cannot give you what you are looking for.”  
  
“How do you know that?” laughed Draco. “I haven’t asked any questions yet.”  
  
“Newspapers always want the most scandalous and salacious information possible,” said Remus, sounding serene and lacing his fingers together. “I can tell you nothing but that Harry was a capable student, who produced a Patronus in his third year. This would be rather astonishing were it not for the fact that this is old news, given that Harry has been in training to fight Voldemort and his followers ever since he began his career at Hogwarts.”  
  
“But,” said Draco, scraping his memory, “Potter just said that you were a friend of his father’s?”  
  
He didn’t fail to notice how all three of the others stiffened. “Although perhaps I am being too assiduous in my investigations,” he continued smoothly. “It was merely that you seemed an attractive candidate for interview, Mr Lupin.”  
  
For some reason this deflecting addendum seemed to aggravate Potter, for he said sharply, “Remus is married.”  
  
“Was married,” said Remus, his tone at last taking on an inflection of sadness. “That’s what I came here to tell you, Harry; and also why I didn’t come before I was sure you were rested. Nymphodora died from the injuries she sustained in the final battle.”  
  
“When Bellatrix --?” whispered Potter. Remus nodded, his eyes glassy. Potter compressed his lips and leaned over, grabbing Remus’ shoulder for support. It struck Draco that Remus seemed to age in a few seconds, as if he had been holding up a front for Potter that he could now lay down.   
  
“I’m so, so sorry, Remus,” said Potter, after a moment. Weasley also came up to clap him on the shoulder and Draco shuffled his feet, feeling that he was intruding. Soon, however, Remus gave a little shake, like a flea-ridden dog, and smiled thinly.  
  
“I have done my grieving, Harry. I fear you have yours to come. But I’m becoming used to having those I love torn from me. I’m terribly glad that you’re still around.”  
  
“You appear to be a man who has had much grief in his life, Mr Lupin,” murmured Draco.  
  
“Please, call me Remus,” said Remus. “‘Mr Lupin’ makes me feel old.”  
  
“Not at all, Remus,” countered Draco. “You’re as old as you feel.”  
  
“By your reasoning, I’m three hundred and twelve,” replied Remus, but his eyes were merry once more. “And yes, you’re right. My parents both died before I was finished my education; two of my best friends died before their twenty-third birthdays -- Harry’s parents -- and my dear friend Sirius died ten years ago.”  
  
“Ten years?” Potter started. “Has it been that long?”  
  
Remus nodded. Potter passed a hand over his eyes. “I’ve missed out on so much,” he murmured.   
  
“These years are ones you can never regain, true,” agreed Remus. “But with my help, and the help of your other friends, we’ll make sure you find out what you missed. And then -- your future is before you.”  
  
 _Some future_ , thought Draco, but he kept his peace.   
  
“Certain people haven’t exactly been forthcoming,” said Potter, with a sly look at Weasley. Weasley took a turn at shuffling his feet. “If it wasn’t for Michel, in fact, I’d never have found out why Hermione and Ron never got married. Next thing you’ll be telling me, Remus, that you and Sirius were lovers.”  
  
“You mean you didn’t know?” said Remus. Weasley gave a scream and leapt away.   
  
Draco caught Potter’s eye. He looked flabbergasted, but a certain light of recognition was dawning on his face. “Oh, my God,” he said.  
  
“Looks like you were right, Weasley.” Draco sidled up to Weasley to caress his shoulder. “Queerness _is_ contagious.”  
  
  
:: ::  
  
  
Potter’s eyes were wild and wide. “I still can’t take it in,” he said through a mouthful of Remus’ Honeyduke’s chocolate. “I mean, I knew he and Sirius were good friends, but Sirius and my dad were _best_ friends."  
  
“It’s the quiet ones you have to watch,” advised Draco.  
  
He broke off a liberal chunk of chocolate and stuffed it in his mouth. He had let down his hackles the moment Weasley closed the door behind him, but another sort of tension was building. It was full of the sparks of shared glances and grins and was pleasurable indeed, but no less dangerous.   
  
Potter swallowed loudly and flopped back on the bed. Almost straight away he sat back up again and scratched at his tunic. “I’m not used to wearing robes like this, they’re really tight,” he complained. “And what’s with these collars?”  
  
“I know.” Draco puffed out his cheeks in sympathetic disgust. “I end up unbuttoning them after about an hour, otherwise I can’t _breathe_.”  
  
“Good idea,” said Potter, setting to with a will. Draco made himself concentrate on breaking off a perfect cube of chocolate -- an almost impossible task, given how rich and heavy Honeyduke’s chocolate was -- and not on the arch of Potter’s throat as his fingers twisted the fiddly buttons.   
  
“It reminded me of being in school,” added Potter, as Draco wrestled with the chocolate bar. He didn’t want to take it off the bed entirely, given that it wasn’t his.  
  
“How so?” returned Draco, preoccupied.   
  
“With Remus there, and me and Ron quarrelling, and you calling me by my last name,” said Potter. Draco’s head shot up, but Potter was staring cross-eyed at his own chin. “It was rather odd -- damn, these buttons are impossible!”  
  
Draco’s heart was pounding. It was an inexcusable mistake, small enough to pass under the radar but important enough to be the crack that would bring his entire façade tumbling down. Of course he called Potter, Potter. They weren’t on friendly terms, to be calling each other by their given names.  
  
Or rather, they _hadn’t_ been. Until now.  
  
“Harry,” tried Draco under his breath, as Potter wrestled with his buttons. It wasn’t that difficult. If Draco pretended that he wasn’t referring to his former enemy or to the man-boy sitting across from him, tousled and frustrated and utterly desirable … well, it worked.  
  
 _Harry_.  
  
It fit him less well than ‘Potter.’ Harry was such a short name, cheerful and sweet but lacking in gravitas. Bereft of the sort of weighty dignity to which the bearer of the name was subjected. In the end, the name of a hero it wasn’t. Potter, with its ring of stalwart army commanders in khakis, born to serve and clipping orders to ‘Fire!’, suited the media image.  
  
Harry, on the other hand, was just right for someone who couldn’t even undo his robes buttons. And it made Draco smile.  
  
“Yes, yes, it’s hilariously funny,” snapped -- Harry. “I don’t suppose you could give me a hand, though?”  
  
“Yeah, sure.” Draco swallowed his laugh. He stood up and batted Harry’s hands away from his collar. “Let the expert work. I don’t suppose you could dress your way out of a paper bag.”  
  
Harry harrumphed. “I don’t think paper bags have buttons. That is the charm of paper bags.”  
  
“Just shut up and stop breathing,” commanded Draco. “Your throat is making the buttons tight.”  
  
Harry subsided into enraged muttering. After a moment he glared at Draco and took a deep breath, which he then held. Draco tugged the cloth to squeeze the side buttons open before pushing aside the flap, exposing Harry’s bare throat, and proceeding to slide out the buttons on the inside.  
  
Draco’s nose was pressed almost into Harry’s cheek as he performed the delicate manoeuvre, letting him inhale Harry's smell. Whatever aftershave Harry used, it was nothing fancy. In fact -- as Draco clipped the final button with his fingernail -- he decided that what he was smelling from Harry’s skin was plain soap. Nothing produced in the great perfume houses of Paris could have been as heady and intoxicating.  
  
He got the last button free and pushed open the flaps of Harry’s collar before drawing back. Harry was making a big deal of taking deep breaths. He didn’t seem to notice that for a second Draco’s fingers had been splayed across his collarbones, Draco’s mouth next to his jaw. Draco didn’t know whether to be thankful for this or not.   
  
“See,” he whispered into Harry’s ear, grinning. “Nothing’s impossible if you wish hard enough. Harry.”  
  
Harry wrinkled his nose and kicked him away, so that he ended up lying flat on his back fanning his face. “If I was wishing, I don’t think I’d be wishing for you to open my collar. I’d be wishing I had my wand back so that I could just spell the stupid things open.”  
  
“Ah.” Draco sat back on the bed, deflated. “I don’t -- I mean. Did you lose your wand in the battle?”  
  
“I suppose so.” The shifting of the cloth suggested that Harry was shrugging. “Nobody’s told me and I haven’t asked.”  
  
Draco felt a pressing need to turn the conversation, lest Harry ask him if Draco knew anything about his wand, or tried to ask any of the researchers. He caught sight of Peter’s salt-and-pepper mop leaning over a pestle and mortar, and asked on impulse, “Who does them up for you, considering you couldn’t unbutton them? Your robes, I mean.”   
  
“Oh.” The small word spoke a thousand volumes. Draco twisted so that he could see Harry’s face, but it was turned away from him. One arm, with a puffed sleeve and narrow wrists, was flung across his head, effectively obscuring anything worth seeing from view. That was, if you couldn’t appreciate the sleek lines of Harry’s torso, or the way his bare toes curled up under the hem of his robes and pulled them taut across the planes of his thighs.   
  
Draco prodded the sole of Harry’s foot to get a response, secretly wanting to tickle it until Harry was helpless with laughter. It was the only way he could imagine Harry submitting to his lechery -- by making him helpless.  
  
Except, of course, that he was thinking as Draco. Not Michel, the man with the clean slate and Stefano’s body.  
  
He didn’t have time to follow through on the thought, because Harry let out a sort of giggle, wrenched his knees closer to his chest and said via his arm, “Peter helped me yesterday, anyway.”  
  
“Peter … oh, _Peter_.” Draco made a production of looking around the room. “Ah, the rather dashing older man with the grey hair?”  
  
“It’s not _all_ grey.” Potter’s tone was one of reproach.  
  
“Ninety percent. Shall I call him over so that we can check?”  
  
“No!” It was a thin scream. Draco caught out for Harry’s foot again, but he snatched it away in time. “Don’t call him. You’ll embarrass me.”  
  
“Ashamed to be seen with me, are you?” The genuine affront that Draco felt coloured his tone. “Have you got a similar problem to your friend Weasley?”  
  
“Of course not.” Harry’s face reappeared from beneath a mound of pillows and cloth and arms, his glasses skewed. “I only meant that you’ll say something to tease me and it will be unbearable.”  
  
Draco picked up an apple from the bedside locker and started tossing it from hand to hand. “You have a crush on him.”   
  
Harry breathed in through his nose, which was turning pink. It looked like strawberry ice cream dotted with chocolate sprinkles. Draco wondered what would happen if he just leaned over and licked it. And then if he tied Harry’s hands to the bedpost and had his wicked way with him, got him out of his system. Everything could go on as before. Like it should.   
  
“You won’t tell?” Harry's statement somehow became a question. Draco could tell that Harry hadn’t intended for it to be so.   
  
Bowing his head, Draco patted approximately where he thought Harry’s knee would be, underneath the billows of robes. “I can’t believe you need to ask, but no.” He polished the apple on his tunic, placed it carefully on the locker and turned to leave.  
  
“Michel, wait -- I mean, you’re leaving? Bye.”  
  
“See you later,” said Draco. “And, by the way, I noticed Peter’s not wearing a wedding ring.”  
  
When he thought it was safe, Draco ducked behind a research desk and chanced a look back. Harry was pushing his glasses straight with one finger with his shoulders hunched, and rolling an apple back and forth across the bed.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Nothing's impossible if you wish hard enough' is a line from Peter Pan. It's meant to be read as if Draco himself is quoting it, but in case anyone thinks I came up with it -- I didn't.


	13. Chapter 13

“Want an apple?”  
  
“No, thank you, Angus.” Draco could barely conceal his irritation. “How long did you say Harry would be?”  
  
“Don’t you call him Potter any more?” said Angus, pawing through Harry’s fruit bowl. “I think he liked it."  
  
“And I think your opinion on the matter counts for squat,” hissed Draco.   
  
Angus picked out two rosy apples and placed one, with undue solemnity, into Draco’s lap. “He usually goes for a shower at this time. You’re early.”  
  
“I’m aware of that.” Draco ran a hand through his hair, which was rather greasy. Alexandre had announced his intention of accompanying his brother on a shopping trip and then going into Diagon Alley. Draco couldn’t risk meeting Alexandre in the street, so he’d been lurking around St Mungo’s for hours, waiting for the very opening of visiting time.  
  
“You can tell the future with apple skins,” Angus informed him. He produced a small silver knife from his pocket.  
  
“You can, if you’re a credulous witch who thinks they’ll spell out the initial of her future husband,” snorted Draco. “You might as well try reading the future in cheese for all the good it’d do you.”  
  
“Tiromancy,” said Angus, peeling the apple skin away from the flesh with a sinuous movement. “Predicting the future in the veins of fully mature cheese.”  
  
Draco stared at him. “And what does it say, then, cheese? That you’re going to be having a dairy product sandwich in the near future?”  
  
Angus pulled the last part of the apple skin away with a flourish. “Well, it told me some other things. Like, there will soon be a parting of the ways. You’ll have to leave. But it was a bit confusing, because it also said you’ll be leaving your face behind. Maybe you’ll die.” Far from looking horrified or delighted at the prospect, Angus merely looked puzzled, as if he couldn’t remember where he’d left his keys. Except, of course, he was too young to possess any keys.   
  
“Charming,” said Draco. He watched with a sneer as Angus bit into his apple, spraying juice on Harry’s now scarlet bedspread, and tossed the apple skin over his shoulder at the same time.  
  
“Could you do me a favour, and check the initial?” asked Angus. His brow sported a fine sheen of sweat.   
  
Draco debated refusing, but he had nothing better to do. To show the boy his place, he took his time about it, pushing himself off the bed with a grunt and a grimace. He was absorbed in whipping the boy’s legs a little with his embroidered robes and so didn’t immediately register what he was seeing on the floor.  
  
It was nothing less than a perfect E. “Well, what do you know,” he murmured, marvelling despite his general distaste for divination.  
  
“It’s an E, isn’t it!” Angus burst out. He spun around, showing a face creased with effort. “Yes, I was right!”  
  
“Lucky guess,” drawled Draco. He prodded the skin with his toe so that it swung into an F shape.  
  
Angus’ eyes fluttered shut. “Her name is Eleanor,” he said in a dreamy voice. “She’s going to be taller than me, and have a pet bullfrog, and blonde hair like yours.”  
  
Draco had been on the point of snapping the boy out of his reverie, but it was he who snapped. “What do you mean?” he snarled, pushing Angus’ shoulder. “I have black hair! Black!” He grabbed a handful of it to prove his point. “Can’t you see?”  
  
“Well, yes, but it was blonde before, and it will be again,” replied Angus, with the air of someone reading the weather despite having Draco’s fingers imbedded in his skin. “That’s what I see.”  
  
“How do you see that, you little freak?” said Draco and, as Angus opened his mouth, “No, don’t _answer_. Just keep your fat mouth shut. Nobody likes little boys who go around making up stories.”  
  
“Nobody likes me anyway,” stated Angus. “I’m going to get bullied in school.” He squinted. “Robert, I think his name is. He’ll fall off a cliff and die when he’s twenty-two.”  
  
“Why are you telling me all this?” Draco was frightened by Angus’ calm, authoritive air. “Do you expect me to believe it’s true?”   
  
“You know you have to believe it’s true,” said Angus.   
  
Draco swallowed into a throat that had turned into sandpaper without his noticing. A commotion broke out at the other end of the room and Draco, grateful for the distraction, moved forward for a better view. Angus slipped past him and made for a table full of silver instruments.  
  
It was Harry. Of course it was Harry. Draco’s heart juddered, because it had recognised him before Draco had let his brain do likewise. Harry looked as if he was in preparation for embalming followed by a full Egyptian burial, so swathed was he in white cloths. As Harry and an advance guard of three dove-grey people -- Peter among them -- came closer, Draco saw that Harry was in fact wrapped in towels.  
  
“I don’t have hypothermia!” he was protesting. “And I can walk. Honestly, I’m fine!”  
  
“Which is why you almost collapsed in the shower,” said Peter, his tone one of gentle rebuke. He did have a velvety voice, Draco had to admit, rubbing at the sudden goose-pimples on his arms. Small wonder that Harry had latched on to him.  
  
Harry was guided to bed without giving any indication that he’d noticed Draco, so Draco stepped towards him. He put his hand on an outlying region of terry towelling. Harry jerked, his cheeks trying to match his sheets.  
  
“You’re here early,” he said.   
  
“I can go away if you like,” said Draco with a small smile, because he was sure that Harry wouldn’t say yes. Even as he thought it, Harry was shaking his head, looking even more embarrassed.  
  
“No, stay,” he said.   
  
“You must be Michel.” Peter held out his hand as the other Aurors melted away. “I'm Peter Bagworth. I’ve heard a lot about you.”  
  
“Everything scandalous and wicked, I trust?” Draco took the other man’s hand. It was like shaking hands with a baseball glove. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”  
  
“Most of it’s quite complimentary,” said Peter with a fatherly smile. “Harry’s taken quite a shine to you.”  
  
Harry was huddling into his nest of blankets, looking distinctly sulky. Draco could guess at the source of his bad humour and couldn’t help but feel a glimmer of satisfaction at Peter’s patronising attitude. “What’s this I hear about a collapse?”  
  
“I turned the shower on too hot, that’s all,” said Harry tartly. “It’s not a big deal.”  
  
“Er, yes, well.” Peter rubbed his wrists together. “Would you like Michel to help you dress today, Harry? I’m sure you’d feel more comfortable having a friend do it.”  
  
Harry looked aghast, but whether from Peter’s betrayal or apprehension about Draco seeing him in the buff Draco couldn’t decide. Whatever the case, Draco wasn’t about to let such a choice opportunity slip.  
  
“I’d be glad to help, Peter. I did a spell working in a robes shop, so it should be easy enough.”  
  
“Really?” said Peter, but with the empty courtesy of someone who hadn't the slightest interest. In any case, Draco didn’t think he’d like to know about Draco’s short stint in a Bulgarian strip club. “Thanks, Michel. I’ll see you later, Harry.”  
  
“Bye,” whispered Harry. Draco bent to fetch some robes from the trunk, concealing his grin of glee.   
  
“Would you like dark blue or teal?” he called.  
  
“I don’t care,” sniffed Harry. “What the hell’s teal?”  
  
“The dark blue it is.” Draco pulled out the robes and shook them. They sported tiny silver stars around the hems and necklines, as well as the mandatory mandarin collar. “Would this help?” He flicked his wand to create some basic curtains, which hung in midair between the bed and the rest of the room.  
  
Harry swung his legs off the edge of the bed and stomped over to Draco, gripping his towel so tight his knuckles whitened. He snatched the robes away, with a fine disregard for wrinkling the linen, and said, “What would help is if you left me to dress by myself. I’m not a _vegetable_ , whatever everyone else thinks.”  
  
“Whatever Peter thinks, you mean,” Draco corrected him. Harry’s face fell. Draco was able to retrieve the robes and smooth them out with the minimum of fuss. “Look, sometimes it happens that way. If you’re straight, you’re straight, it’s pretty much incurable. In Weasley’s case it’s terminal.”  
  
Harry managed a weak smile. “Why are you so mean to Ron all of the time?”  
  
“Oh, he likes it,” said Draco airily. He leaned into Harry’s ear. “Closet masochist, you know.”  
  
Harry gave a hiccupping kind of laugh. “He’d kill you if he heard that.”  
  
“Oh, come on. He needs to lighten up. Definitely before you tell him that you’re …”  
  
Draco found himself unable to finish and busied himself with straightening already neat robes. He was so surprised when Harry stilled his hands with his own that he gasped and tried to turn it into a cough, almost choking to death in the effort.   
  
“That I’m gay?” Harry was smiling. “That I only dated girls because I was fooling myself that I liked them, but in reality I could spend hours trailing a boy I thought was a spy and yet only a few minutes kissing my girlfriend before I got bored? That’s going to go down well.”  
  
“Two words: balloon and lead,” said Draco. His voice was a little shaky because Harry’s hands were still resting on his, light as pulsing feathers.   
  
Harry’s chuckle broke the tension. He reached up to wrench off the towel that had been wrapped in a turban around his head. Draco’s hands felt as if the skin had been ripped from them.   
  
“Are you sure you’re going to be all right?” asked Draco.  
  
“Oh, yeah.” Harry smiled again and broke Draco a little more. “They’re all panic merchants around here. Anyway, the main reason I acted like I wanted help dressing was so that Peter. You know.”  
  
“There’s plenty more where he came from,” said Draco, with absolute authority.  
  
Harry slid past Draco to dig some boxers from the trunk and quirk his mouth. Draco hadn’t thought of them, not being in the habit of wearing underwear. Although only sensible, it was a habit that excited Stefano quite unreasonably.   
  
“I think I was just afraid that he was the only one,” Harry was saying. “I _want_ to, but … it’s not something you can shout about. Peter was the only one who seemed even a bit gay, and now he’s straight. I just thought.” He made a complicated gesture with his hand, which seemed to incorporate javelin throwing and a shark attack. “He _seemed_ interested.”  
  
“Harry.” Draco strove to keep his voice calm. “Quite probably he was. You are basically ravishable. But he’s got a classic case of the freaks -- afraid of what he seems to want. Those kind are no good, trust me. Too many issues.”  
  
Harry stared at him, his cheeks burning. Draco’s hand went to his mouth, wondering what he’d said or done to merit such an intense gaze.   
  
“Ravishable?” repeated Harry.  
  
“Oops,” said Draco.  
  
They goggled at each other for a long time, right up until Draco was struck by the ridiculousness of the situation and released a harsh laugh. For all that Harry pressed his lips together to hold back his amusement, all he ended up doing was laughing through his nose instead.   
  
With exaggerated care, Draco laid the robes on the bed. He swooped down and unwrapped the towels from Harry’s ankles. With his back turned, he began folding them. A moment later, a soft rustling told him that Harry was getting dressed on his own.  
  
Draco smoothed his hands over the towels, thinking back on what Rosaline had let slip during their last night together. Something about dizziness and fainting becoming more frequent as time went on. No wonder Peter was so worried. Perhaps it was the reason why Peter didn’t want to get close to Harry.  
  
He turned in time to see Harry clutching the bed spread with one hand and the front of his robes with the other, taking deep breaths. His face was draining of blushes and leaving behind only faint smears, like blood on porcelain.  
  
“Harry.” Draco dropped the towels and fetched up against Harry’s shoulder, shoving his own underneath Harry’s arm. “You should have said something!”  
  
“I’m … fine.” It took him two exhalations to lie.   
  
Draco hoisted his arm around his neck and used what little leverage he had to push Harry back against the bed. His legs were looped over the edge, but the rapid rise and fall of his chest showed that he needed support more than comfort. Trying to summon up his meagre supply of first aid skills, Draco pressed his fingers to the pulse skittering along Harry’s neck. It seemed fast, but Draco had no idea if that was normal. He clambered upwards to clamp his palm over Harry’s forehead, which was icy cold. That Draco was certain wasn’t right.  
  
“I’m going to get help,” said Draco, but Harry’s fingers snaked around his wrist and hung on. For all that he was freezing to death, his grip was strong.  
  
“It will pass. Stay.”  
  
For the second time, Draco obeyed. It was becoming something of a habit.  
  
“At least let me get some blankets.”   
  
Harry shook his head. “Your hands are warm.”   
  
Draco knew he only meant on his forehead, but he couldn’t not smile and was more relieved than anything to see a faint flush building across Harry’s cheeks.   
  
“Did anyone ever tell you,” whispered Harry, “that you have a dirty mind?”  
  
“Tell me? I give lessons,” said Draco, tucking Harry’s robes close to his body. “Here, give me your hands.” Harry obediently proffered them, clasped together as if in prayer. Draco chafed them between his own, then raised them to his mouth and breathed on them.  
  
“Am I going to die?” asked Harry. Draco looked down at him. His eyes were closed, long lashes lying like spiders’ legs against his pasty cheeks. His damp skin dropped back, leaving behind the shape of his skull.  
  
“Yes,” said Draco. Harry’s eyes snapped open, wide and fearful. “Everyone’s going to die, you idiot. You’re only a hero, you’re not immortal.”  
  
Harry relaxed, his shoulders settling against the red bedspread. The whiteness of his skin and the blackness of his hair against the ruby cloth made a shocking contrast. Draco felt a bit like Snow White’s mother, excepting the depraved thoughts that were harder and harder to repel for any length of time in Harry’s presence.  
  
“You don’t think I’m a hero, do you?” There was no accusation in the tone, only a matter-of-factness that startled Draco.  
  
“You defeated You-Know-Who,” he pointed out. “You saved the world.”  
  
“Answer the question,” said Harry, smiling.   
  
“No,” whispered Draco, and kissed him.  
  
At least, that’s what he wanted to do. He wanted it so badly that, for a moment, the fantasy superimposed itself over the reality. He could almost imagine Harry’s lips moving against his own, but it was a pitiful replacement for the feeling.   
  
The curtain quivered and Angus ducked under it, coming up beaming. Draco jumped back from Harry before he realised that he was still a respectable distance away from him, for all that both their hands were clasped in Draco’s lap.  
  
“I brought some cheese,” said Angus, with a significant glance at Draco that sent cold daggers shooting through him. “Want some?”  
  
  
:: ::  
  
  
Draco breathed in a great lungful of smoggy air. He’d had to give Harry -- Harry, who was returning to a normal temperature after two hours -- a pitiful excuse about craving tea to get away. But the only thing he craved was Harry, which stunned him. He’d seen Harry at his most pathetic, shaking and sweating and smelling sour despite his shower, and all Draco had wanted to do was kiss him better.  
  
It was a good thing that this business was nearly concluded, because Stefano was sure to smell a rat sooner rather than later. Then he’d be gone like a shot, taking his hair with him. Futhermore Draco was almost sure that the Aurors were not out searching for him en masse, that his retrieval was not a priority for them. Why, then, was he still here?  
  
Because Harry had asked him to stay. Draco had never known any choice to be so simple and so stupid.  
  
He bid adieu to the grubby street. It had been flirting with danger to even go outside, but Draco had felt a pressing need for perspective. What he got was an eyeful of the finest in London tenement housing and chewing gum stuck to his shoe, but it was hardly the worst the world could throw at him. _That_ was waiting upstairs.  
  
A confusing scene met his eyes: a large troupe of Aurors gathered around Harry’s bed, all silent.  
  
“There you are.” Harry's voice was strong even though he was shivering underneath his eiderdown. “I want Michel to witness this, for the record.”  
  
“Are you sure this is wise, Harry?” asked Peter, frowning. Draco thought for a heart-stopping second that Harry was going to come out, or make his will.  
  
“I don’t know,” said Harry. “You decide if I’m a wise person, and if you do then it makes this wise. Michel, do you mind?”  
  
“What are you doing?” asked Draco.  
  
“Making a statement,” said Harry, with a ghostly grin. “I would like it noted that, as of this moment, Draco Malfoy is declared innocent of the murder of Albus Dumbledore.”  
  
A low murmuring broke out among the dove-grey clad, putting Draco in mind of a far-off hive of bees. His own mind was clear, almost too much so. He just stopped himself floating up to the ceiling to observe events from there.  
  
“Harry, we have written testimonies to the effect that Malfoy was guilty of collusion with Death Eaters and a feral werewolf and was responsible for bringing them into Hogwarts.” Peter's face grew stern when faced with Harry’s mutinous expression. “As a result of this, Dumbledore was murdered. All of them are automatically guilty of being accessories to murder, including Malfoy, whether or not he raised the wand himself.”  
  
“Does that make me guilty as well?” asked Harry.   
  
“What do you mean?” Peter motioned to one of his fellow Aurors. He now looked concerned.   
  
“I was there. You haven’t listed me as a suspect. I haven’t given a statement -- until now, that is.”  
  
“Harry.” Peter’s voice was gentle and, to Draco’s ears at least, most irritating. “None of those I mentioned said that you were there.”  
  
Harry gave a snort. “That’s because they couldn’t see me. Or did you forget my Invisibility Cloak, the one Dumbledore himself requested that I keep on me at all times just before he died?”  
  
“Yes, I forgot. But what has that got to do with anything?”  
  
“Simple,” said Harry. “I am verifying the statements of the Death Eaters and Greyback. Malfoy was there, but he didn’t kill Dumbledore. Oh, he tried -- but it was Snape who did it.”  
  
“Harry, each of those people has claimed to be Dumbledore’s killer,” protested Peter. “That’s why we’re still searching for Malfoy, that’s why none of them have been prosecuted. I know they were Death Eaters, but even that is not enough evidence to convict them of a murder for which they all claim credit.”  
  
“There you go, then,” said Harry. “Here’s your evidence: an eyewitness account. Or are you really going to believe their word above mine?”  
  
“No, Harry, but you must understand --”  
  
“Understand what? Georgia told me herself how much money has been wasted on the search for Malfoy. I’m not only giving you the chance to punish the murderer, I’m saving you thousands of Galleons.”  
  
“It’s not as simple as that. Your experiences, your bias, your long illness -- these may count against your giving an accurate account.”  
  
“Then give me Veritaserum,” demanded Harry. “Put my thoughts in a Pensieve! Come on, do I have to do all of this for you?”  
  
An odd, twisted look stole over Peter’s face. Draco felt a flash of foreboding as Peter exchanged glances with several of his colleagues, all of whom looked grim.  
  
“We can’t give you Veritaserum,” said Peter, slowly. “Nor can we magically extract your thoughts.”  
  
“Why _not_?” shouted Harry. “I give you permission!”  
  
“It’s not a question of permission. I don’t know if you took Muggle Studies at Hogwarts?” Harry shook his head. “A pity. Well, there are certain regulations when it comes to using magic on Muggles. In extreme cases it is permissible, such as the use of Memory Modifying Charms or any magic necessary to correct inadvertent spell damage. However, too much magic of this sort, and the majority of other magic, is almost toxic to Muggles. It can kill them.”  
  
“What,” said Harry, his teeth gritted, “does this history lesson have to do with me?”  
  
Peter mopped his brow with his sleeve, looking wretched. “I’m trying to say that it is a criminal offence to administer Veritaserum to a Muggle, for fear of causing them severe debilitation or death.”  
  
“I’m not asking you to give it to some Muggle!” hissed Harry. “I’m asking you to give it to me!”  
  
“That, I fear, is the point.” Peter looked around at his fellow Aurors once more, but none of them would meet his eye. “Your -- that is to say, in the battle -- a severe drainage of power -- certain difficulties arose --”  
  
During Peter’s broken monologue, Draco observed that Harry became very still, like a statue. Only his eyes, which were flickering to and fro, betrayed any sign of life.   
  
“Are you saying,” he said, his voice tremulous but trying not to be, “that I’ve somehow lost my magic? That I’ve turned Muggle?”  
  
“Not so much Muggle,” Peter hastened to reassure him. “We’re working to --”  
  
“No, not Muggle,” repeated Harry, his voice hollow. “A Squib. Only worse.”  
  
“We have great hopes that our experiments will prove successful.” Peter sounded desperate. Harry ignored him, looking instead to Draco with imploring eyes. Draco stood rooted to the spot, overwhelmed.   
  
“Shut up,” said Harry to Peter, who was babbling about new developments. “Go away.” He reached out, his movements clumsy, and snatched at Draco’s makeshift curtains until they shielded him from view.  
  
“Well, that’s quite a coup for you, Mr Rodriguez,” said Peter, after a few minutes of dead silence.  
  
Draco threw him a frozen stare. “You really are an idiot, Bagworth. Kindly don’t speak to me ever again.”   
  
He stalked off, his head high, intending to exit the place with all due speed. He was halted by a monumental crash from one of the tables. His first instinct was to check if Harry had emerged because of it, but there was no movement from behind the curtain.   
  
It was the table carrying the delicate silver instruments that had been upset. They had cascaded all over the nearby floor, some in pieces. In the very centre of the wreckage lay Angus, his body curled up like a fossil and surrounded by a sickly green glow.  
  
At this precise moment that Granger appeared in the doorway, toting two or three children. She spotted Angus in seconds and swooped down on him, keening like a hungry vulture. She went to cradle him in her arms, crying his name, but was prevented by one of the Aurors.  
  
“Leave him be, madam!” he commanded. Such was the authority in the voice that she shrank back, her hands to her mouth.   
  
However, Angus did nothing more interesting than lie and glow in the ruins of what Draco judged to be some very expensive equipment. The Auror who had told Granger to stop waved an arm at another, who came hurrying over. She knelt by Angus, feeling his head and taking off his shoes so that she could have a go at his toes.  
  
“Are you his mother, ma'am?” she said, raising her head to Granger. Granger nodded, her hands now captive to the two other children. Even they were silent for once, staring at the prone form of their brother.  
  
“May I ask, then, if you have any history of Seers in your family?” asked the Auror.   
  
“Oh, shit,” said Draco, and made a run for it.  
  
  
  



	14. Chapter 14

“Want an apple?”  
  
“No, thank you, Angus.” Draco could barely conceal his irritation. “How long did you say Harry would be?”  
  
“Don’t you call him Potter any more?” said Angus, pawing through Harry’s fruit bowl. “I think he liked it."  
  
“And I think your opinion on the matter counts for squat,” hissed Draco.   
  
Angus picked out two rosy apples and placed one, with undue solemnity, into Draco’s lap. “He usually goes for a shower at this time. You’re early.”  
  
“I’m aware of that.” Draco ran a hand through his hair, which was rather greasy. Alexandre had announced his intention of accompanying his brother on a shopping trip and then going into Diagon Alley. Draco couldn’t risk meeting Alexandre in the street, so he’d been lurking around St Mungo’s for hours, waiting for the very opening of visiting time.  
  
“You can tell the future with apple skins,” Angus informed him. He produced a small silver knife from his pocket.  
  
“You can, if you’re a credulous witch who thinks they’ll spell out the initial of her future husband,” snorted Draco. “You might as well try reading the future in cheese for all the good it’d do you.”  
  
“Tiromancy,” said Angus, peeling the apple skin away from the flesh with a sinuous movement. “Predicting the future in the veins of fully mature cheese.”  
  
Draco stared at him. “And what does it say, then, cheese? That you’re going to be having a dairy product sandwich in the near future?”  
  
Angus pulled the last part of the apple skin away with a flourish. “Well, it told me some other things. Like, there will soon be a parting of the ways. You’ll have to leave. But it was a bit confusing, because it also said you’ll be leaving your face behind. Maybe you’ll die.” Far from looking horrified or delighted at the prospect, Angus merely looked puzzled, as if he couldn’t remember where he’d left his keys. Except, of course, he was too young to possess any keys.   
  
“Charming,” said Draco. He watched with a sneer as Angus bit into his apple, spraying juice on Harry’s now scarlet bedspread, and tossed the apple skin over his shoulder at the same time.  
  
“Could you do me a favour, and check the initial?” asked Angus. His brow sported a fine sheen of sweat.   
  
Draco debated refusing, but he had nothing better to do. To show the boy his place, he took his time about it, pushing himself off the bed with a grunt and a grimace. He was absorbed in whipping the boy’s legs a little with his embroidered robes and so didn’t immediately register what he was seeing on the floor.  
  
It was nothing less than a perfect E. “Well, what do you know,” he murmured, marvelling despite his general distaste for divination.  
  
“It’s an E, isn’t it!” Angus burst out. He spun around, showing a face creased with effort. “Yes, I was right!”  
  
“Lucky guess,” drawled Draco. He prodded the skin with his toe so that it swung into an F shape.  
  
Angus’ eyes fluttered shut. “Her name is Eleanor,” he said in a dreamy voice. “She’s going to be taller than me, and have a pet bullfrog, and blonde hair like yours.”  
  
Draco had been on the point of snapping the boy out of his reverie, but it was he who snapped. “What do you mean?” he snarled, pushing Angus’ shoulder. “I have black hair! Black!” He grabbed a handful of it to prove his point. “Can’t you see?”  
  
“Well, yes, but it was blonde before, and it will be again,” replied Angus, with the air of someone reading the weather despite having Draco’s fingers imbedded in his skin. “That’s what I see.”  
  
“How do you see that, you little freak?” said Draco and, as Angus opened his mouth, “No, don’t _answer_. Just keep your fat mouth shut. Nobody likes little boys who go around making up stories.”  
  
“Nobody likes me anyway,” stated Angus. “I’m going to get bullied in school.” He squinted. “Robert, I think his name is. He’ll fall off a cliff and die when he’s twenty-two.”  
  
“Why are you telling me all this?” Draco was frightened by Angus’ calm, authoritive air. “Do you expect me to believe it’s true?”   
  
“You know you have to believe it’s true,” said Angus.   
  
Draco swallowed into a throat that had turned into sandpaper without his noticing. A commotion broke out at the other end of the room and Draco, grateful for the distraction, moved forward for a better view. Angus slipped past him and made for a table full of silver instruments.  
  
It was Harry. Of course it was Harry. Draco’s heart juddered, because it had recognised him before Draco had let his brain do likewise. Harry looked as if he was in preparation for embalming followed by a full Egyptian burial, so swathed was he in white cloths. As Harry and an advance guard of three dove-grey people -- Peter among them -- came closer, Draco saw that Harry was in fact wrapped in towels.  
  
“I don’t have hypothermia!” he was protesting. “And I can walk. Honestly, I’m fine!”  
  
“Which is why you almost collapsed in the shower,” said Peter, his tone one of gentle rebuke. He did have a velvety voice, Draco had to admit, rubbing at the sudden goose-pimples on his arms. Small wonder that Harry had latched on to him.  
  
Harry was guided to bed without giving any indication that he’d noticed Draco, so Draco stepped towards him. He put his hand on an outlying region of terry towelling. Harry jerked, his cheeks trying to match his sheets.  
  
“You’re here early,” he said.   
  
“I can go away if you like,” said Draco with a small smile, because he was sure that Harry wouldn’t say yes. Even as he thought it, Harry was shaking his head, looking even more embarrassed.  
  
“No, stay,” he said.   
  
“You must be Michel.” Peter held out his hand as the other Aurors melted away. “I'm Peter Bagworth. I’ve heard a lot about you.”  
  
“Everything scandalous and wicked, I trust?” Draco took the other man’s hand. It was like shaking hands with a baseball glove. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”  
  
“Most of it’s quite complimentary,” said Peter with a fatherly smile. “Harry’s taken quite a shine to you.”  
  
Harry was huddling into his nest of blankets, looking distinctly sulky. Draco could guess at the source of his bad humour and couldn’t help but feel a glimmer of satisfaction at Peter’s patronising attitude. “What’s this I hear about a collapse?”  
  
“I turned the shower on too hot, that’s all,” said Harry tartly. “It’s not a big deal.”  
  
“Er, yes, well.” Peter rubbed his wrists together. “Would you like Michel to help you dress today, Harry? I’m sure you’d feel more comfortable having a friend do it.”  
  
Harry looked aghast, but whether from Peter’s betrayal or apprehension about Draco seeing him in the buff Draco couldn’t decide. Whatever the case, Draco wasn’t about to let such a choice opportunity slip.  
  
“I’d be glad to help, Peter. I did a spell working in a robes shop, so it should be easy enough.”  
  
“Really?” said Peter, but with the empty courtesy of someone who hadn't the slightest interest. In any case, Draco didn’t think he’d like to know about Draco’s short stint in a Bulgarian strip club. “Thanks, Michel. I’ll see you later, Harry.”  
  
“Bye,” whispered Harry. Draco bent to fetch some robes from the trunk, concealing his grin of glee.   
  
“Would you like dark blue or teal?” he called.  
  
“I don’t care,” sniffed Harry. “What the hell’s teal?”  
  
“The dark blue it is.” Draco pulled out the robes and shook them. They sported tiny silver stars around the hems and necklines, as well as the mandatory mandarin collar. “Would this help?” He flicked his wand to create some basic curtains, which hung in midair between the bed and the rest of the room.  
  
Harry swung his legs off the edge of the bed and stomped over to Draco, gripping his towel so tight his knuckles whitened. He snatched the robes away, with a fine disregard for wrinkling the linen, and said, “What would help is if you left me to dress by myself. I’m not a _vegetable_ , whatever everyone else thinks.”  
  
“Whatever Peter thinks, you mean,” Draco corrected him. Harry’s face fell. Draco was able to retrieve the robes and smooth them out with the minimum of fuss. “Look, sometimes it happens that way. If you’re straight, you’re straight, it’s pretty much incurable. In Weasley’s case it’s terminal.”  
  
Harry managed a weak smile. “Why are you so mean to Ron all of the time?”  
  
“Oh, he likes it,” said Draco airily. He leaned into Harry’s ear. “Closet masochist, you know.”  
  
Harry gave a hiccupping kind of laugh. “He’d kill you if he heard that.”  
  
“Oh, come on. He needs to lighten up. Definitely before you tell him that you’re …”  
  
Draco found himself unable to finish and busied himself with straightening already neat robes. He was so surprised when Harry stilled his hands with his own that he gasped and tried to turn it into a cough, almost choking to death in the effort.   
  
“That I’m gay?” Harry was smiling. “That I only dated girls because I was fooling myself that I liked them, but in reality I could spend hours trailing a boy I thought was a spy and yet only a few minutes kissing my girlfriend before I got bored? That’s going to go down well.”  
  
“Two words: balloon and lead,” said Draco. His voice was a little shaky because Harry’s hands were still resting on his, light as pulsing feathers.   
  
Harry’s chuckle broke the tension. He reached up to wrench off the towel that had been wrapped in a turban around his head. Draco’s hands felt as if the skin had been ripped from them.   
  
“Are you sure you’re going to be all right?” asked Draco.  
  
“Oh, yeah.” Harry smiled again and broke Draco a little more. “They’re all panic merchants around here. Anyway, the main reason I acted like I wanted help dressing was so that Peter. You know.”  
  
“There’s plenty more where he came from,” said Draco, with absolute authority.  
  
Harry slid past Draco to dig some boxers from the trunk and quirk his mouth. Draco hadn’t thought of them, not being in the habit of wearing underwear. Although only sensible, it was a habit that excited Stefano quite unreasonably.   
  
“I think I was just afraid that he was the only one,” Harry was saying. “I _want_ to, but … it’s not something you can shout about. Peter was the only one who seemed even a bit gay, and now he’s straight. I just thought.” He made a complicated gesture with his hand, which seemed to incorporate javelin throwing and a shark attack. “He _seemed_ interested.”  
  
“Harry.” Draco strove to keep his voice calm. “Quite probably he was. You are basically ravishable. But he’s got a classic case of the freaks -- afraid of what he seems to want. Those kind are no good, trust me. Too many issues.”  
  
Harry stared at him, his cheeks burning. Draco’s hand went to his mouth, wondering what he’d said or done to merit such an intense gaze.   
  
“Ravishable?” repeated Harry.  
  
“Oops,” said Draco.  
  
They goggled at each other for a long time, right up until Draco was struck by the ridiculousness of the situation and released a harsh laugh. For all that Harry pressed his lips together to hold back his amusement, all he ended up doing was laughing through his nose instead.   
  
With exaggerated care, Draco laid the robes on the bed. He swooped down and unwrapped the towels from Harry’s ankles. With his back turned, he began folding them. A moment later, a soft rustling told him that Harry was getting dressed on his own.  
  
Draco smoothed his hands over the towels, thinking back on what Rosaline had let slip during their last night together. Something about dizziness and fainting becoming more frequent as time went on. No wonder Peter was so worried. Perhaps it was the reason why Peter didn’t want to get close to Harry.  
  
He turned in time to see Harry clutching the bed spread with one hand and the front of his robes with the other, taking deep breaths. His face was draining of blushes and leaving behind only faint smears, like blood on porcelain.  
  
“Harry.” Draco dropped the towels and fetched up against Harry’s shoulder, shoving his own underneath Harry’s arm. “You should have said something!”  
  
“I’m … fine.” It took him two exhalations to lie.   
  
Draco hoisted his arm around his neck and used what little leverage he had to push Harry back against the bed. His legs were looped over the edge, but the rapid rise and fall of his chest showed that he needed support more than comfort. Trying to summon up his meagre supply of first aid skills, Draco pressed his fingers to the pulse skittering along Harry’s neck. It seemed fast, but Draco had no idea if that was normal. He clambered upwards to clamp his palm over Harry’s forehead, which was icy cold. That Draco was certain wasn’t right.  
  
“I’m going to get help,” said Draco, but Harry’s fingers snaked around his wrist and hung on. For all that he was freezing to death, his grip was strong.  
  
“It will pass. Stay.”  
  
For the second time, Draco obeyed. It was becoming something of a habit.  
  
“At least let me get some blankets.”   
  
Harry shook his head. “Your hands are warm.”   
  
Draco knew he only meant on his forehead, but he couldn’t not smile and was more relieved than anything to see a faint flush building across Harry’s cheeks.   
  
“Did anyone ever tell you,” whispered Harry, “that you have a dirty mind?”  
  
“Tell me? I give lessons,” said Draco, tucking Harry’s robes close to his body. “Here, give me your hands.” Harry obediently proffered them, clasped together as if in prayer. Draco chafed them between his own, then raised them to his mouth and breathed on them.  
  
“Am I going to die?” asked Harry. Draco looked down at him. His eyes were closed, long lashes lying like spiders’ legs against his pasty cheeks. His damp skin dropped back, leaving behind the shape of his skull.  
  
“Yes,” said Draco. Harry’s eyes snapped open, wide and fearful. “Everyone’s going to die, you idiot. You’re only a hero, you’re not immortal.”  
  
Harry relaxed, his shoulders settling against the red bedspread. The whiteness of his skin and the blackness of his hair against the ruby cloth made a shocking contrast. Draco felt a bit like Snow White’s mother, excepting the depraved thoughts that were harder and harder to repel for any length of time in Harry’s presence.  
  
“You don’t think I’m a hero, do you?” There was no accusation in the tone, only a matter-of-factness that startled Draco.  
  
“You defeated You-Know-Who,” he pointed out. “You saved the world.”  
  
“Answer the question,” said Harry, smiling.   
  
“No,” whispered Draco, and kissed him.  
  
At least, that’s what he wanted to do. He wanted it so badly that, for a moment, the fantasy superimposed itself over the reality. He could almost imagine Harry’s lips moving against his own, but it was a pitiful replacement for the feeling.   
  
The curtain quivered and Angus ducked under it, coming up beaming. Draco jumped back from Harry before he realised that he was still a respectable distance away from him, for all that both their hands were clasped in Draco’s lap.  
  
“I brought some cheese,” said Angus, with a significant glance at Draco that sent cold daggers shooting through him. “Want some?”  
  
  
:: ::  
  
  
Draco breathed in a great lungful of smoggy air. He’d had to give Harry -- Harry, who was returning to a normal temperature after two hours -- a pitiful excuse about craving tea to get away. But the only thing he craved was Harry, which stunned him. He’d seen Harry at his most pathetic, shaking and sweating and smelling sour despite his shower, and all Draco had wanted to do was kiss him better.  
  
It was a good thing that this business was nearly concluded, because Stefano was sure to smell a rat sooner rather than later. Then he’d be gone like a shot, taking his hair with him. Futhermore Draco was almost sure that the Aurors were not out searching for him en masse, that his retrieval was not a priority for them. Why, then, was he still here?  
  
Because Harry had asked him to stay. Draco had never known any choice to be so simple and so stupid.  
  
He bid adieu to the grubby street. It had been flirting with danger to even go outside, but Draco had felt a pressing need for perspective. What he got was an eyeful of the finest in London tenement housing and chewing gum stuck to his shoe, but it was hardly the worst the world could throw at him. _That_ was waiting upstairs.  
  
A confusing scene met his eyes: a large troupe of Aurors gathered around Harry’s bed, all silent.  
  
“There you are.” Harry's voice was strong even though he was shivering underneath his eiderdown. “I want Michel to witness this, for the record.”  
  
“Are you sure this is wise, Harry?” asked Peter, frowning. Draco thought for a heart-stopping second that Harry was going to come out, or make his will.  
  
“I don’t know,” said Harry. “You decide if I’m a wise person, and if you do then it makes this wise. Michel, do you mind?”  
  
“What are you doing?” asked Draco.  
  
“Making a statement,” said Harry, with a ghostly grin. “I would like it noted that, as of this moment, Draco Malfoy is declared innocent of the murder of Albus Dumbledore.”  
  
A low murmuring broke out among the dove-grey clad, putting Draco in mind of a far-off hive of bees. His own mind was clear, almost too much so. He just stopped himself floating up to the ceiling to observe events from there.  
  
“Harry, we have written testimonies to the effect that Malfoy was guilty of collusion with Death Eaters and a feral werewolf and was responsible for bringing them into Hogwarts.” Peter's face grew stern when faced with Harry’s mutinous expression. “As a result of this, Dumbledore was murdered. All of them are automatically guilty of being accessories to murder, including Malfoy, whether or not he raised the wand himself.”  
  
“Does that make me guilty as well?” asked Harry.   
  
“What do you mean?” Peter motioned to one of his fellow Aurors. He now looked concerned.   
  
“I was there. You haven’t listed me as a suspect. I haven’t given a statement -- until now, that is.”  
  
“Harry.” Peter’s voice was gentle and, to Draco’s ears at least, most irritating. “None of those I mentioned said that you were there.”  
  
Harry gave a snort. “That’s because they couldn’t see me. Or did you forget my Invisibility Cloak, the one Dumbledore himself requested that I keep on me at all times just before he died?”  
  
“Yes, I forgot. But what has that got to do with anything?”  
  
“Simple,” said Harry. “I am verifying the statements of the Death Eaters and Greyback. Malfoy was there, but he didn’t kill Dumbledore. Oh, he tried -- but it was Snape who did it.”  
  
“Harry, each of those people has claimed to be Dumbledore’s killer,” protested Peter. “That’s why we’re still searching for Malfoy, that’s why none of them have been prosecuted. I know they were Death Eaters, but even that is not enough evidence to convict them of a murder for which they all claim credit.”  
  
“There you go, then,” said Harry. “Here’s your evidence: an eyewitness account. Or are you really going to believe their word above mine?”  
  
“No, Harry, but you must understand --”  
  
“Understand what? Georgia told me herself how much money has been wasted on the search for Malfoy. I’m not only giving you the chance to punish the murderer, I’m saving you thousands of Galleons.”  
  
“It’s not as simple as that. Your experiences, your bias, your long illness -- these may count against your giving an accurate account.”  
  
“Then give me Veritaserum,” demanded Harry. “Put my thoughts in a Pensieve! Come on, do I have to do all of this for you?”  
  
An odd, twisted look stole over Peter’s face. Draco felt a flash of foreboding as Peter exchanged glances with several of his colleagues, all of whom looked grim.  
  
“We can’t give you Veritaserum,” said Peter, slowly. “Nor can we magically extract your thoughts.”  
  
“Why _not_?” shouted Harry. “I give you permission!”  
  
“It’s not a question of permission. I don’t know if you took Muggle Studies at Hogwarts?” Harry shook his head. “A pity. Well, there are certain regulations when it comes to using magic on Muggles. In extreme cases it is permissible, such as the use of Memory Modifying Charms or any magic necessary to correct inadvertent spell damage. However, too much magic of this sort, and the majority of other magic, is almost toxic to Muggles. It can kill them.”  
  
“What,” said Harry, his teeth gritted, “does this history lesson have to do with me?”  
  
Peter mopped his brow with his sleeve, looking wretched. “I’m trying to say that it is a criminal offence to administer Veritaserum to a Muggle, for fear of causing them severe debilitation or death.”  
  
“I’m not asking you to give it to some Muggle!” hissed Harry. “I’m asking you to give it to me!”  
  
“That, I fear, is the point.” Peter looked around at his fellow Aurors once more, but none of them would meet his eye. “Your -- that is to say, in the battle -- a severe drainage of power -- certain difficulties arose --”  
  
During Peter’s broken monologue, Draco observed that Harry became very still, like a statue. Only his eyes, which were flickering to and fro, betrayed any sign of life.   
  
“Are you saying,” he said, his voice tremulous but trying not to be, “that I’ve somehow lost my magic? That I’ve turned Muggle?”  
  
“Not so much Muggle,” Peter hastened to reassure him. “We’re working to --”  
  
“No, not Muggle,” repeated Harry, his voice hollow. “A Squib. Only worse.”  
  
“We have great hopes that our experiments will prove successful.” Peter sounded desperate. Harry ignored him, looking instead to Draco with imploring eyes. Draco stood rooted to the spot, overwhelmed.   
  
“Shut up,” said Harry to Peter, who was babbling about new developments. “Go away.” He reached out, his movements clumsy, and snatched at Draco’s makeshift curtains until they shielded him from view.  
  
“Well, that’s quite a coup for you, Mr Rodriguez,” said Peter, after a few minutes of dead silence.  
  
Draco threw him a frozen stare. “You really are an idiot, Bagworth. Kindly don’t speak to me ever again.”   
  
He stalked off, his head high, intending to exit the place with all due speed. He was halted by a monumental crash from one of the tables. His first instinct was to check if Harry had emerged because of it, but there was no movement from behind the curtain.   
  
It was the table carrying the delicate silver instruments that had been upset. They had cascaded all over the nearby floor, some in pieces. In the very centre of the wreckage lay Angus, his body curled up like a fossil and surrounded by a sickly green glow.  
  
At this precise moment that Granger appeared in the doorway, toting two or three children. She spotted Angus in seconds and swooped down on him, keening like a hungry vulture. She went to cradle him in her arms, crying his name, but was prevented by one of the Aurors.  
  
“Leave him be, madam!” he commanded. Such was the authority in the voice that she shrank back, her hands to her mouth.   
  
However, Angus did nothing more interesting than lie and glow in the ruins of what Draco judged to be some very expensive equipment. The Auror who had told Granger to stop waved an arm at another, who came hurrying over. She knelt by Angus, feeling his head and taking off his shoes so that she could have a go at his toes.  
  
“Are you his mother, ma'am?” she said, raising her head to Granger. Granger nodded, her hands now captive to the two other children. Even they were silent for once, staring at the prone form of their brother.  
  
“May I ask, then, if you have any history of Seers in your family?” asked the Auror.   
  
“Oh, shit,” said Draco, and made a run for it.  
  
  
  



	15. Chapter 15

Draco walked into the hotel lobby, wincing with every step. Blaise had been as true to his word as any Slytherin -- he'd wrung everything he could from Draco, both body and mind, before revealing anything in return. Draco wondered if he'd have time to spell away the fresh bruises, or if Stefano would believe that he'd tumbled down some stairs. He couldn't deny that he'd enjoyed Blaise's body -- although not quite as much as Blaise had enjoyed his -- but Blaise did seem to have confused horses and people, in that you rode one and made love to the other.  
  
Oddly enough -- and despite the ample distraction provided by Blaise -- Draco had spent the last few hours day-dreaming of Stefano. With Harry's admiration of Stefano's body fresh in his mind, Draco couldn't help but renew his own appreciation of the same. He was looking forward to luring Stefano to bed, away from his own sulks and Alexandre's accusing, envious gaze. To that end, he paused at reception to order a champagne dinner and surreptitiously massage his backside.  
  
Gazing idly across the expanse of the foyer, which heavily featured potted palms and red Connemara marble, Draco was brought up short by the sight of one very familiar and hefty rump.   
  
"Will that be all, sir?" oozed the receptionist.  
  
"Yes, thank you." Draco spat out the words with all the finesse of a drill sergeant, his eyes trained on Achilles as he straightened up from where he'd been fussing with the zip of his suitcase. There was absolutely no time to reach the safety of the elevators and no hope that Draco would not bring further trouble down upon himself by magically transforming into Stefano in full view of half a hundred Muggle hotel guests. There was nothing for it but to brazen it out.  
  
As his pain from Blaise's excesses receded and his anticipation of laying hands on Stefano's sinfully gorgeous body mounted, Draco had sunk into a very pleasant, fuzzy-edged mood of relaxation. It bolstered him as he sashayed across the lobby, feeling as if he were dragging his feet out of a quagmire with every step.  
  
Achilles spotted him long before they were in hearing range. Draco let the edges of his mouth lift, acutely aware of his bed-head hair and floor-wrinkled robes. Would Achilles find his debauched appearance arousing, or galling? Would he notice it at all?  
  
In point of fact, Achilles face remained completely immobile. Draco's step faltered as he finally reached him. "Achilles?" he ventured. "Aren't you pleased to see me?"  
  
It was, he immediately realised, a ridiculous thing to say. After all, Draco had run away from Achilles, not the other way around.   
  
To Draco's astonishment, Achilles' face crumpled and unshed tears stood out from his eyes.  
  
"I'm so glad you said that," he rasped. He crushed Draco to his chest, his whiskery cheek sandpapering Draco's forehead. "I've missed you _so much_ , Felix. I thought I'd lost you forever."  
  
Draco allowed the hug to last just long enough so that Achilles wouldn't be insulted when he pulled away. "How did you find me here?"   
  
"I've been tracking you since you left," admitted Achilles. "I'd all but given up hope -- you seemed to have disappeared into thin air. Then I saw a man I met in Spain in Oxford Street, and followed him back here. In some strange way, he reminded me of you. I came to England only because I knew you were born here, not because I thought you'd _be_ here."  
  
"That doesn't explain why you decided to take a room in this hotel," said Draco, trying and failing to make his voice less sharp. Carried away by his own delight and cunning, Achilles didn't appear to notice.  
  
"I needed somewhere to stay, of course!" he said. "I'd been to Manchester and Liverpool, and only just arrived in London. I went back to the train station to collect my suitcase and check in, and then …" He buried Draco in his arms once more. "Oh, my love. After all my efforts, I found you through pure luck."  
  
"And your family, Achilles?" Draco stepped back, radiating icy dignity. "What have they been doing all this time?"  
  
Achilles cleared his throat, looking shame-faced. "They think I'm on a business trip."  
  
Draco narrowed his eyes. He couldn't fault Achilles for living a lie, but as it regarded Draco it was a futile effort.   
  
"Is that so?" he replied. "Well, you'd better start scouting the antique shops then. It wouldn't do to return home empty-handed."  
  
"But I won't be." Achilles beamed, and stroked his beard. The travelling had taken its toll on him; his dark hair had lost its lustre and the skin was sighing away from his face, showing up every wrinkle. "I'll have you."  
  
"I'm not coming back, Achilles."  
  
"What?" Achille's smile bubbled away.  
  
"Why do you think I left in the first place? Just so that you could play a game of hide-and-seek across two continents?" Draco shook his head. "This wasn't about you. You and I ended the day I left."  
  
"But Felix --" Achilles' hands clawed at the empty air, as if it would bind Draco to him.  
  
"My name isn't even Felix," sighed Draco. "Your concern for me is touching, truly it is. But you need to end this foolishness now. Go home. Fondle your wife. Try to see if there was a reason you married her after all. If that doesn't work, get yourself another whore."  
  
"You're not -- you weren't --" The words were eked from a strangled throat.  
  
"I was and I am." Draco lifted one shoulder and let it drop. "Don't worry." He smiled. "You're not owing."  
  
He walked away, feeling a coil of regret. However, his life had no room for the Achille du Toits of this world. Achilles had sated a need, much as Draco had done for him. The sooner he realised it, the better for him.  
  
"Fe -- please. Please, wait."  
  
Against his better judgement, Draco slowed his step.  
  
"Give me a chance."   
  
Draco shifted his head into profile, staring at his own shoulder. He could sense Achilles, a large colourful blur at the edge of his vision, wringing his hands.  
  
"I love you."  
  
Draco turned around.  
  
Achilles' face was a roadmap of despair. Draco let his gaze roam from Achilles' feet -- encased in expensive leather shoes -- to his head, where grey hairs were sprouting with the avowed intention of one day ousting all the black. For a whole minute, he let Achilles hope.  
  
Then he spun on his heel and strode away. By the time he reached the stairs, Achilles' soundless shout of sorrow had faded from his mind. As his foot hit the first step, he was already longing for Stefano's hot little mouth.  
  
  
:: ::  
  
  
Clearly the gods were intent on hubris. Draco found the hotel room to be conspicuously devoid of Stefano. Calling his name and inspecting his bedroom revealed nothing.  
  
Striding back into the living area under a black cloud revealed Alexandre in situ.  
  
He was fresh from a shower, clad only in jeans and the towel with which he was vigorously drying his hair. Stray drops of water were drying on a back as broad and brown as teak. Two chocolate-button nipples, one slightly lower than the other, snagged Draco's attention; a curly line of hair invited him to move it further south, to appreciate the narrowness and sharpness of the hips that Draco had only touched once.   
  
Draco felt his mouth go dry, and licked his parched lips in consternation. Two wary black eyes were regarding him, torn between suspicion and poorly caged desire.  
  
"Where's Stefano?" managed Draco.  
  
Alexandre snorted in derision. It did nothing to distract Draco from the way Alexandre was staring at his mouth. "He has a job in McDonald's, remember? He started on night shifts. Left about an hour ago. But you knew that already."  
  
"Obviously." Draco tossed his head, marking the way Alexandre's eyes followed the movement hungrily. He was so very like Stefano. And Draco had wanted Stefano, naked and at his mercy, so very much. The one night Draco had ceased to be bored by Stefano's attentions, and he decided to go out mopping floors. Typical.  
  
Draco sank on to the sofa, toeing off his shoes and socks in swift, practised gestures. Perhaps Stefano's absence was a blessing in disguise. As soon as Draco sat down, he felt so bone-weary that getting up again seemed an impossible achievement. Acrobatic sex was definitely out of the question.  
  
"So." Alexandre's voice was hard and challenging. "What did you do all day?"  
  
Draco contemplated telling him the truth, just to see the look on his face. Of course, in reality he could never risk it. "I had another interview with Harry Potter. I visited an old school-friend. I got a bite to eat. And then I came home, because the one thing my day was pointless without was an interrogation from you."  
  
"I'm just looking out for my brother!" snarled Alexandre.  
  
Draco loosened the collar of Blaise's shirt with one finger. His exertions had left him too exhausted to Apparate, so he'd had to borrow some Muggle clothes and cash for a taxi from Blaise to get back. He let his eyes slide closed as he answered Alexandre.  
  
"Don't worry." He yawned. "He finds me equally as satisfying as you did."  
  
"You're such a bastard." Alexandre's voice shook.  
  
"So I've been told," said Draco pleasantly. "Although _I've_ never slept with my brother's boyfriend."  
  
"I --" Alexandre's expression of righteous indignation was slowly infiltrated by doubt.  
  
"Please, don't add hypocrisy to the long list of your other charms." Draco yawned again, cracking his jaw. "I'm not about to judge you. If you'd just pay me the same courtesy, the world would be a happier place."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
Draco's eyes sprung open in surprise. "For what? Doubting me, or seeing me naked?"  
  
"Both." Alexandre hesitated, then winced. "Not the latter."  
  
Draco laughed. "Thank you. I'll take that as a compliment."  
  
"It was meant as one," said Alexandre. He stepped closer to Draco and dropped his towel, in such close proximity that a drop of water from his wet tendrils splashed on to Draco's nose.  
  
 _Oh dear_ , thought Draco, raising his eyes to Alexandre's painfully sincere face.   
  
"Alexandre, I --" he began, determined to let his tiredness win the day if his conscience would not.  
  
Alexandre popped a button and his jeans crumpled to the floor. Underneath he was still wet from his shower, and very, very naked.  
  
Draco blinked away the itch in his eyes that demanded that he close them. Alexandre reached down to brush Draco's jaw with his fingers. With an inaudible sigh, Draco leaned into them, and curled his own hands around Alexandre's jutting hipbones to draw him closer.  
  
 _At least_ , he thought with relief, _I don't have to get up_.  
  
  
:: ::  
  
  
The next day, Angus was back at his post by Harry's side. Although this would usually have been an occasion for much gnashing of teeth on Draco's part, for the first time he was glad to see the kid -- although not out of any particular concern for his welfare.  
  
Angus' high, childish voice rang out across the octagon as Draco neared the bed. The curtains had been flung back and bound with strips of red silk. Harry, Draco was pleased to see, was dressed to the nines in a deep blue robe of flattering severity.   
  
"-- and then they took me to another part of the Ministry of Magic called the Department of Mysteries, where Mum worked for a while. They hooked me up to this huge aquarium full of _brains_ and when they did the brains went crazy and tried to climb out of the glass, and a bunch of Time Turners all shattered. They said they hadn't seen such levels of destruction since _you_ last visited. When did you visit, Uncle Harry? Was it a long time ago?"  
  
"Well before you were born," laughed Harry. "Go on, what happened next?"  
  
"Not much. A woman with a quill was following me around for ages writing down everything I said. But Mum said it was ridiculous to subject me to that all of the time and she knew what a prophetic trance looked like when she saw one, she's read about loads of them."  
  
"I'll bet they weren't too pleased about it."  
  
"Nope!" Angus grinned, displaying a gap in his milk teeth. "But she pointed out that as I was 'the first authentic seer since Cassandra Trelawney' no one else alive had been around to witness one, either, so she was just as well qualified as anyone."  
  
"What about your dad? Was he pleased?" pressed Harry.   
  
Draco could have put an accurate answer to that even with out Angus' sudden frown and mumbled, "Yeah, well, a bit." Draco judged it a superlative moment to intervene in the conversation.  
  
"Hello Harry. Angus," he said. "Is your mother around today?"  
  
"Yup." Angus fairly bounced at the news. "She's taken all the kids to my grandma's and she's been with some researchers answering questions since we arrived."  
  
"Good," replied Draco, to everyone's evident surprise. He swiftly added, "That means we can eat these without fear of retribution." He produced a large bag of toffees from the depths of his pocket. After he relinquished ownership by placing them on the bed, Angus fell upon them with the appetite of a ravening horde.  
  
With the child suitably distracted, Draco pulled up the chair and sat as close to Harry's bed as he could manage. Harry, for his part, looked suddenly uncomfortable at being the sole focus of attention. He tugged at the sleeves of his robes as if they were about to come off.  
  
Draco almost wished they would.  
  
"How's your hand today?" he asked.  
  
"Better." Harry held it up, palm out. It had been expertly healed, but it still looked redder than it should and, where his fingers met his palm, a puckered blotch of proud flesh stood out from the rest. It was just about where Draco's lips had touched him.  
  
"They say that might fade after a while, but it'll never go away," said Harry, following his gaze. "I'm stuck with it." He sounded oddly victorious, as if this were an feat worthy of note.  
  
"I'm sorry." Draco pressed a fingertip to the scar.   
  
Harry sucked in a breath. "I'm not."  
  
At that moment a bevy of dove-grey Aurors bustled through the doors, Granger's electrocuted mop in their midst.   
  
"Excuse me," murmured Draco, not meeting Harry's eyes. "I just want to ask Mrs McLaggen a few questions about the war."  
  
"Really?" Harry sounded bemused, as well he should. It was the first time that Draco had shown any interest in gathering background information for his 'story.' But Draco didn't let that minor detail deter him as he edged through the throng. By a miracle, he caught Granger's eye and gestured her outside. Eyebrows mountaineering into her hairline, she bobbed her head and followed him.  
  
As soon as they were alone, Granger burst into speech. "On Harry's behalf, I want to thank you for not revealing that classified information about his condition."  
  
"There's no need," drawled Draco. "He's already done that. And I would suggest that you keep your voice down, unless you want the information to become unclassified right here in the corridor."  
  
Granger flushed and subsided. Good. An on-the-ball Granger was the last thing Draco needed if he were to extract the desired confession.  
  
"I have reason to believe," Draco went on, pretending to check his notes, "that you sent out a search warrant for one Draco Malfoy on the day Harry woke from his coma. Could you explain that for me?"  
  
Granger's eyebrows wiggled towards each other like two obese worms. "I can't, because I did no such thing."  
  
"Please, Mrs McLaggen," sighed Draco, "let's not prevaricate here. I have gained access to certain files, courtesy of P.I. Zabini, that conclusively state that you obtained his services on the twenty-ninth of May, 2005. He was hired to find --" Draco's tongue nearly slipped to say _me_ "-- Draco Malfoy and, if possible, hand him over to you."  
  
Granger's eyes had become rounder with every sentence. By the time Draco finished, they looked ready to pop out of their sockets. "What a load of rubbish!" she exclaimed. "I never hired this investigator. I have no reason for wishing to locate Malfoy. Off the record --" she took a step closer, overwhelming Draco with the odour of oatmeal "-- Draco Malfoy is guilty of no crime except stupidity. Harry was there when Dumbledore died. He heard Malfoy say that he was doing it because he wanted to save his parents -- a foolish notion, but an honourable one. In the end, he didn't kill Dumbledore. Snape did."  
  
Draco almost said, "I know." Granger's eyes were too bright and too close to his to even whisper it.   
  
"Come," said Granger briskly. "I think we need to have a little chat."  
  
She led him to what looked like a non-denominational prayer room. Ostensibly most pureblood wizarding families were Anglican, but the intermingling with Muggles had lead to all sorts of religious practices infiltrating the magical psyche. The International Ministry for Magic was most severely displeased with the way one magical sect had penetrated the Muggle world, earning hundreds of Muggle devotees. They were about the only wizards who could get away with wearing robes in public, although they were all a disgusting shade of orange. Draco tried to remember what they were called. The Hairy Chrysanthemums?  
  
Regardless of the faith of the ruling majority, most people who came to St Mungo's felt the need for a little divine reassurance. The sparkling stained glass windows -- fashioned from abstract whorls the colour of jewels -- rained prisms of light down upon the cool white walls and blue velvet pews. Despite adjuring himself to keep up his guard, the calm of the place worked a magic of its own on Draco's tense muscles and racing heart.  
  
The place was empty, but Granger still spoke in a whisper. "I'm going to tell you a story. Don't interrupt --"  
  
Draco snorted. "Let me remind you that I am not one of your squalling children."  
  
"Again," continued Granger, unperturbed. "When the war ended, before Ron and I had our rift and I married Cormac, I went to Gabon for three months as part of a research team. I was quite good at potions and even more interested in research, and there were huge discoveries being made all over the African subcontinent. If it weren't for the interruption of the war, I would never have had a chance to be a part of them. One of the very few benefits to come out of the whole horrible experience.  
  
"Most potions use sap or bark from at least one plant. Unfortunately, many of these can be so easily contaminated that they are useless from the minute they're extracted from the plants. To that end, my team had gone out to study ants and other insects that transported and stored plant materials to see if we could adapt their techniques to our own abstraction of necessary potion components."  
  
Granger had been staring at the window during her soliloquy, but at this point she turned and fixed Draco with an intent gaze. For all that, her eyes weren't looking at him.  
  
"In the African jungles, there is a type of ant called the weaver ant. To make their nests, weavers take the leaves of a tree and literally sew them together. When danger threatens, they emerge from their woven fortress and climb down the outside. Then, each single ant taps its thorax against the leaves. It makes a sound almost like rain falling on glass. At the time, I thought it was the most amazing thing in the world."  
  
She sighed, her head dipping forward so that curls bounced across her forehead. "If they're invaded by another colony of ants, weaver ants don't fight to the death. They spray their enemies with formic acid, paralyse them, and move them out of range. They don't kill them."  
  
"Are you trying to draw some sort of analogy here?" asked Draco.  
  
"Trying? No. I hoped I was succeeding." Granger had such common hazel eyes; it was strange that they could shine with such uncommon fervour. "I believed Harry when he told me that Draco didn't kill Dumbledore. I believed him even before Snape confessed. The reason I believed Harry first was because he knew Malfoy so well. He'd tracked him for a year before Dumbledore's murder. He could have told you what he ate for breakfast. From what I observed, what Harry told me, and what I've pieced together since then, Malfoy was just like a weaver ant. He'd make a big noise to scare people away, to impress them with how great and strong he was, but behind it all was just sewn-up leaves. He'd look like he could kill someone as easy as winking, but in the end all he wanted to do was remove the threat."  
  
Draco's breath caught in his throat. "None -- none of this proves that you didn't set Zabini on him."  
  
Granger smiled. "Honestly, Michel. _You_ might set a Slytherin to catch a Slytherin, but me? I'd go look for him myself. And I was pretty sure that Harry would be wanting to do that himself, when he woke up."  
  
"The fact remains that someone set Zabini on Malfoy's trail, and all the evidence strongly points to you." Draco tried to keep his voice stern, but all the fight was draining out of him.  
  
"And I can tell you nothing but that someone's been pulling the wool over your eyes," replied Granger. "I think you'd best let it die, Michel. Before someone a bit more suspicious than me starts wondering why it is you want this to have happened so badly."  
  
She left him then, alone in the non-denominational chapel and wishing for the first time in his life that there was some greater being calling the shots so that he didn't have to.  
  
  



	16. Chapter 16

Draco's head was buzzing with so many confusing, contradictory thoughts that he nearly walked straight past Stefano in the hotel lobby. On second glance, it was not so surprising that his powers of recognition were hindered. Stefano was dressed in an horrifically bright outfit of clashing reds and blues, his silky hair crammed beneath a foam cap.  
  
Stefano had no such difficulties in distinguishing Draco. With a huge grin, he bounded across to him with the unfettered enthusiasm of a half-trained Labrador puppy.  
  
"I _missed_ you yesterday," he said. He buried his face in Draco's neck -- nearly garotting him with the brim of the cap, and all heedless of decorum and the amusing spectacle he was providing for the scattered guests and porters. Not to mention that his declaration was a little too close to the one Draco had received the day before in almost the same spot.   
  
"If I'd known you were going to be out working, I would have come home earlier," Draco replied waspishly. "As it was, I ordered us a gorgeous meal that Alexandre ended up eating on his own, much to the detriment of his physique."  
  
"You didn't have another fight, did you?" Stefano's voice was pleading, but Draco was too busy avoiding the rock-hard brim of his cap to hide his irritation.  
  
"No, we didn't," said Draco. "He was ... unusually quiet, in fact."  
  
"Oh. Well. Good." Stefano slipped his hand around Draco's waist, bringing them hip to hip. "What would you like to do this evening?"  
  
Draco sent a wry glance in the direction of a marabou-bedecked grande dame, who was staring at Draco and Stefano as if they'd sprouted horns. He leaned across to whisper in Stefano's ear, "That old lady is giving me some ideas … I wonder, are feathers included in room service?"  
  
A delicious shiver ran through the warm body pressed against his side. "I think it's worth finding out … don't you, Andrew?"  
  
"I do," said Draco. Not taking his eyes off the woman, he slowly licked the shell of Stefano's ear. She turned a bright shade of magenta and turned away so quickly that she almost wobbled off her high heels.  
  
Stefano's soft huff of contentment reminded Draco of his presence. Dropping his hands to the curve of Stefano's jeans, Draco guided him to the elevators. They were, most fortunately, empty.  
  
By the time they reached the suite, Stefano was desperately clawing at Draco's clothes and the foam hat had been lost to oblivion. Allowing himself to be borne along on the tide of Stefano's passion, Draco's mouth was soon full of Stefano's soft skin, his ears ringing with Stefano's garbled encouragement. There were no feathers to be found, but Draco discovered that silk roses from the floral arrangement on the mantelpiece were quite sufficient to drive Stefano mad with desire.  
  
Afterwards Draco lay on his back, his hands clasped behind his head, and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. Stefano was curled around him like a clinging vine, pressing snuffling noises of contentment against Draco's chest. Draco wondered how much Harry would have given to be in his place right now, limp from sating himself in Stefano's body.   
  
Quite a lot, he decided with satisfaction.  
  
They were both on the verge of sleep when a loud cawing cut through the musky silence. Stefano sat bolt upright. Draco was right behind him, but while Stefano paused to pull on a dressing gown Draco followed the noise immediately. He found himself eye to eye with an enormous tawny owl perched on the table in the living area. There was something about the bird's gaze that Draco would have labelled as covetous, if it weren't entirely the wrong species. The owl graciously held out a claw to which a letter was affixed.  
  
"It's for you," said Draco, tossing the parchment at Stefano.  
  
"Me?" Stefano bunched the dressing gown closer to his neck. "Who'd be writing to me?"  
  
"Open it and see," suggested Draco. He Summoned some Knuts from the bedroom and dropped them into the bird's pouch. With a clicking of its beak that sounded almost like a beleaguered sigh, the bird spread its wings and flew straight up the chimney.  
  
Draco threw himself on the leather sofa as Stefano ripped open the letter, uneven fragments fluttering to the ground. The sofa brought out goose bumps on Draco's chilled skin. He wriggled around until he got comfortable, the friction gaining him a small measure of heat.  
  
After a time, Stefano cleared his throat. "It's from Hogwarts."  
  
"Oh, really? How astonishing," said Draco, which it was. He'd never expected them to reply so promptly.  
  
"They're offering me a place so that I can sit my Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests," continued Stefano, frowning. "But why would they do that? They don't even know me."  
  
"Alexandre said you never took the Beauxbaton's leaving exam," said Draco. He hooked one foot on the edge of the sofa to rest his cheek on his knee -- one of his most winning poses. "Wouldn't it be good to get some qualifications? Then you wouldn't have to go around cleaning Muggle toilets for the rest of your life."  
  
Stefano's brow cleared. " _You_ did this for me?"  
  
"I set the ball in motion -- but it's not too late to back out of it."  
  
"Oh, Andrew." Stefano sank on to the sofa beside him, rubbing his cheek against Draco's shoulder. His hand caressed the small of his back. Draco wondered if Stefano could possibly go five minutes without touching him -- he felt like he was coming out in a full-body rash from all the contact. "You don't understand. Once they find out why I was expelled from Beauxbatons, they'll never let me in."  
  
"So don't tell them." Draco shrugged, not so much to emphasise his words as to shrug off Stefano's wandering hand. "Register under a different name."  
  
"I'm sure they have ways of preventing that from happening," said Stefano. "I … you see, what happened … there was a Charms teacher at Beauxbatons, Monsieur Busard."  
  
"Don’t tell me, you Charmed him into a sauerkraut," said Draco lazily.  
  
Stefano inched closer again. Draco could feel him rapidly swallowing, his Adam's apple bobbing against Draco's collarbone. "Far worse."  
  
"You murdered him?"   
  
"I slept with him." Stefano bit his lip.  
  
Draco had to reign in his laugher. "So what?"  
  
"You don't understand. I slept with him -- when I was fifteen. For him, that was statutory rape. As for me, they gave me Veritaserum and found out that _I_ had seduced _him_. Oh, the things I did … complaining of illnesses so he'd have to take off my clothes and examine me … sneaking into his chambers and waiting naked in his bed … hiding under his desk and giving him blow-jobs during class …"  
  
"Phew." Draco caught a curl of Stefano's hair in his finger and tugged. Thus he dislodged Stefano's mouth from his neck, which Stefano was licking after every second word. "He sounds like a lucky guy."  
  
"He lost his job because of me. And they put me on a strict warning -- I wasn't even allowed to speak to him for the rest of the term. The only way I could contact the other teachers was if I got one of my friends to give them letters with academic questions on them. They thought I was dangerous."  
  
Draco thought of the dangerous people he'd known, and felt his goose bumps triple in number. "That's rather excessive."  
  
"Oh, I don't know." Stefano turned to nipping Draco's jaw. "I was a bit … insatiable. Of course, I managed to get to Busard again, but he just didn't want to know. Not even when I …" His voice dropped, as did Draco's stomach when he heard Stefano's whisper. "So I turned to other people. Not teachers, because Busard was the only decent one, but other students, older students. Used to sort of organise orgies in the grounds … but I think I signed my expulsion warrant when I sucked off Gerard Lemercier in the middle of the dining hall at high tea."  
  
Draco was speechless for a moment. "Well … perhaps that could be written off as, ah -- stop -- youthful high -- _oh God_ \-- spirits?"  
  
"Do you think that'd work?" mumbled Stefano. The dressing gown skimmed past his shoulders, dropping disregarded to the floor. Stefano manoeuvred one brown thigh between Draco's legs, slowly but surely pushing them apart.  
  
"Worth a try," gasped Draco, as Stefano slid down his body to disappear temporarily from the world of speech.  
  
The sound of a lock snicking open made Draco jump, but Stefano did not cease his attentions -- he merely squeezed Draco's thighs to hold him down. Alexandre twirled through the door, a plastic bag strung from his teeth, two more looped around his wrists. He plie'd his knees to release one bag, starting to say, "I thought we'd have Chinese tonight --" before the sight of his naked brother on his knees before their naked lover brought him up short.  
  
"Hello, Alexandre," said Draco, admiring his incongruously steady voice.   
  
"What?" Alexandre gaped like a fish. "What?"  
  
Before Draco could answer, he was distracted by several of his tightly wound muscles releasing, all at once. He sighed and smiled rather dimwittedly at Alexandre, whose eyes were like two burning coals.  
  
Stefano sat back on his heels, rubbing at his damp mouth. Alexandre averted his eyes, so his gaze fell on the letter from Hogwarts. His eyes widened as he scanned the words.  
  
"You're going back to school?" Alexandre asked his brother. He sounded so full of hope that he'd apparently forgotten that his brother was displaying more skin than he had since the day he was born.   
  
Stefano shrugged. "Thinking about it. Andrew's idea."  
  
"Andrew's?" The skin of Alexandre's forehead crinkled, each furrow ploughed by shock.   
  
"That would be me," interjected Draco. He stared at Alexandre for just a minute too long, then pulled Stefano up from the floor to cool his mouth with Stefano's lips. Behind him, Draco could practically feel the heat of Alexandre's jealousy.  
  
"You two should have more consideration," snapped Alexandre, to the accompaniment of a slamming door.   
  
Draco stifled a snigger in Stefano's hair. After himself, Stefano was the most inconsiderate person he'd ever met.   
  
"What d'you think his problem is?" murmured Stefano. His eyelids fluttered sleepily, but that didn't stop him from bathing Draco's earlobe with his tongue.  
  
Draco, fully aware of just how easily sounds carried in the suite, brushed his thumb against Stefano's inner thigh to elicit a drowsy moan and pretended to consider the question.  
  
"I think," said Draco, smiling sweetly and pinching cruelly, "he needs to get laid."  
  
  
:: ::  
  
  
When Draco arrived, Harry was throwing up into a plastic bucket.  
  
Draco had always hated to be around sick people, even when that person was himself. When he cut himself, he'd close his eyes rather than look at the blood. One of the reasons he watched his drinking so carefully was that he never again wanted to get so hung over that he vomited rainbows the following morning.  
  
Without a word, he crawled on to the bed beside Harry. Harry was fully occupied with leaning over the side and voiding the contents of his stomach, so he didn't even flinch when Draco laid his hand on Harry's back and began rubbing in small, soothing circles.  
  
Long after the retching had come to an end, Harry lay with his head over the bucket, panting. Draco propped himself up on his elbow and continued his unbroken gentling, which bunched up the cloth of Harry's pyjamas and revealed a valley of milk-white skin.  
  
"I'm sorry." Harry's voice was cracked in the middle.  
  
"What for?" asked Draco. "Even I've blown cookies before, you know."  
  
"I don't usually make such a spectacle of it." Harry pulled his head back on to the pillow, but didn't turn to face Draco. "But it seems to come more often than before, and before I know it I'm …"   
  
He gestured at the bucket. Inspired, Draco aimed a Vanishing Charm at it. He was unprepared for the pure vitriol that doused Harry's face where he thought Draco couldn't see it.  
  
"Hey, Harry?" Draco moved his hand up to lightly squeeze Harry's shoulder. "It's okay to be angry about this, you know."  
  
"About what?" challenged Harry. Draco took a deep breath.  
  
"Your magic," he said quietly. "It's gone, Harry. Those researchers can't bring it back, or they would have done it by now. The D -- You-Know-Who drained you. I imagine it was the only way you could finally vanquish him -- _destroy_ him. But I'm sure you'd wish him back if it brought your magic with him -- right?"  
  
Harry rolled over, breathing acid on Draco's face. He fought not to wince.   
  
"Yes," said Harry bitterly. "Yes, I would do anything to get my magic back. I'd _kill_ for it. But I killed to lose it. How is that fair?" His voice dropped to a cadence of wonderment. "How is it that you realise that, and my best friends can't?"  
  
Draco shrugged, hearing the starchy sheets rustle beneath him. "That's exactly why. They don't want to believe it of you. You cleaned up the world, Harry. They don't want to see where you dumped the trash."  
  
"Oh, _God_." Harry's face twisted in a parody of ecstasy. He sank his teeth into the pillow, his eyes wet. "Nothing will bring it back. What am I going to _do_?"  
  
Draco took a deep breath. "Just what you've been doing up until now -- only better. Six billion Muggles survive it, to a greater or lesser extent, every day. You -- you're just not special any more."  
  
Harry gave a shuddering gasp. When he spoke, his voice was tear-sodden but soft, like a crumbling tissue. "You sound like you've had experience."  
  
"More than I'd care to recall," sighed Draco. "I didn't think very highly of Muggles until I realised firsthand how much they had to cope with just to get through one single day. Boiling kettles, changing light bulbs, cooking food from scratch, catching trains, _walking_ everywhere. Sitting for hours in wet jeans because they can't spell them dry. Turning out all their drawers because they can't find their keys and Summoning them is out of the question. After a while I came to terms with the fact that overcoming all this didn't make them inferior -- it made them incredible. Being pampered your entire life and living in the lap of luxury gives you a great vantage point to look down on people, but absolutely no real basis for doing so."  
  
Harry snuffled, blinking away the tears that weighed down his lashes. With a start, Draco realised that his hand was still resting on Harry's arm. Harry had made no move to shake it off, so Draco tried to ignore the darts of cotton that pricked his fingertips every time he breathed.  
  
"Nothing's going to change," said Harry. "When I lived with Muggles, I was a freak. When I came to Hogwarts, I was a freak _show_. Now I'll be a wizard living without magic in a world full of non-magical people, so I can't even be like them. It's like seeing something that you weren't meant to see. No amount of wishing will bring you back to before you ever saw it."  
  
Draco got the feeling that Harry wasn't just speaking in generalities. He trailed his fingers down Harry's sleeve in a vaguely comforting gesture. Without warning, Harry's hand came up to grip the crook of Draco's elbow, preventing him from withdrawing his hand even if had he wanted to.   
  
"You're the only one who understands," whispered Harry. "I wish it was someone -- anyone else. I don't know you, and I barely trust you."  
  
"That's very sensible of you," said Draco. He wondered how many people would have to say it to him before he'd stop feeling his gut clench at the words.   
  
Harry's lips curved. "I don’t trust you because I know you're going to leave."  
  
Pre-empted, Draco smiled uncomfortably. "I couldn't possibly stay here forever so I can visit you. If for no other reason than the inevitable blood that would be spilled by Weasley and his relatives."  
  
"I know." Harry burrowed his cheek into the pillow, his fingers lifting and falling a little as if Draco's elbow was a fragile piano. "But it's like what I just said. Just because life is one way doesn't mean you don't wish it was another."  
  
"You've got it wrong," said Draco. "If you really knew me, you wouldn't want me to stay. In fact, you'd be the first to chase me out, with whips and spurs."  
  
The pad of Harry's thumb found the hollow at the bend of Draco's arm. "If you really knew _me_ , you wouldn't want to stay. Perhaps that's why love was invented."  
  
"To provide blinkers against the truth?" suggested Draco sarcastically.  
  
"To cushion the blow," countered Harry. "To provide the backing music when your world falls apart. To stop your memory from shattering when you'd like to forget."  
  
"You make it sound so pleasant," murmured Draco. He'd never held eye contact with someone so closely and so long. Wisps of an unnameable tingling were suffusing his skin.   
  
"Chopping up onions can make you cry," said Harry, "but a lot of people still like the taste of them enough to do it."  
  
"Do you like onions?"   
  
"Will you kiss me if I say yes?"  
  
Draco's breath stilled. Harry's hand pressed down on his elbow, guiding his forearm down so that Draco was cupping Harry's hip. Although Draco could not breathe, and could feel his brain sparking out from lack of air, Harry seemed to have a surfeit of it. His chest was rising and falling so fast it was almost as if his heart was pushing it in and out in time to its beat. Sweat droplets stood out from his collarbones and forehead.   
  
For the first time, Draco appreciated just how ill Harry looked. With a dizzy feeling, Draco realised that Harry wasn't the same as him. Draco had been pushed out of wizarding society to fend on his own. Harry wasn't even going to have that chance.  
  
Harry's hand was clammy atop his own.   
  
Draco closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to Harry's, soaking up the beats of perspiration with his warm and healthy skin.   
  
Harry's breath hitched.  
  
Draco felt dampness on his cheeks. He wondered if he too was sweating. Then he realised he was crying.  
  
"Do you like onions?" he asked, his voice little more than a breath.  
  
"Yes," said Harry.  
  
Clumsily, so clumsily, Draco's mouth found Harry's. At first he was inhaling the corner of Harry's lips, before he slid along them to find their cushiony centre. Harry's breath was rancid, but Draco kissed him again and again, dry little pecks that became softer and slicker as he pressed them on for longer.   
  
Harry threaded his fingers through Draco's -- Stefano's -- hair. "Wait," he said breathlessly. "Ginny said you were sleeping with Rosaline. Is that true?"  
  
Draco shut his eyes, the touch of Harry's lips staining his mouth like a brand. "What do you think?"  
  
Harry pulled forward a lovelock to hold to his mouth. "I think you don't love her."  
  
"I'll tell you something, Harry," said Draco, as his hair slipped from Harry's grasp, too fine to be caught for long. "The only woman I've ever loved is long dead. Frankly, I'm not even attracted to Rosaline."  
  
"You can sleep with someone without loving them or being attracted to them," Harry pointed out. Draco would have rolled his eyes if his proximity to Harry hadn't drained him of all ready sarcastic ammunition.   
  
"More than you realise," he said instead. "She was the only reason I managed to get in here in the first place. If you regret that happening, now is the time to say so."  
  
"I don't care if you fucked every Auror in the Ministry to find me," whispered Harry. His bottom lip was bisected right down the middle, a dry valley that rasped against Draco's chin. A pink dent crossed Harry's nose where his glasses were pressed in at an awkward angle. Too late, Draco realised he was memorising these details as he would those of a corpse.  
  
"How on earth did Ginny discover such an interesting piece of information?" he wondered. He hadn't seen hide nor hair of Mrs Wood in a long time and would have paid cash never to do so again. But it seemed she hadn't forgotten him, if this whisper campaign was anything to go by.  
  
"She was in the same class as Rosaline in Hogwarts," replied Harry. "I think they were friends. Ginny's a bit jealous of you, to tell the truth."  
  
Now that Draco found truly laughable. "Whatever for?" he asked.  
  
"This," said Harry, and kissed him again.   
  
Draco had lost count of the number of people he'd kissed after the first hundred. Beyond that, he decided, one didn't need to bother. He'd had good kisses and bad. They'd ranged from tender, through rough, all the way to violent enough to leave him bleeding. He'd had kisses that lingered, kisses that were no more than awkward pecks, kisses that sealed a business arrangement, kisses that begged him to believe they were made from love.   
  
Draco couldn't honestly say that Harry's kiss made all the fabulous osculation he'd previously experienced pale into insignificance. It stood to reason: Harry, after spending his horniest years in a coma, was hardly the most proficient of kissers. He didn't make Draco's legs turn to jelly, or rouse him to incoherent levels of excitement. It didn't even distract him from the fact that Harry's tongue, thick and clumsy as it was, came near to choking him, or that there was saliva _everywhere_.  
  
It did, however, make his skin prickle slightly, as if he'd been dropped into carbonated water. Harry's kisses were sloppy and rash, much like Harry himself, but Draco found the sandpapering of his chin quite pleasant. He'd never liked chins that were too closely shaven; it reminded him overly of kissing a girl.   
  
Harry's teeth clacked against his own and Harry immediately stopped. He dropped his eyes, his sooty lashes sweeping cheeks to which a hot blush was rising. "Sorry," he muttered.  
  
Draco grinned. "What for?" he asked, meaning it.   
  
Harry's kiss didn’t stand out from the crowd in terms of skill or swiftness, crudity or finely-honed control. Harry would have to practise long and hard before he became even a merely all right kisser.  
  
But all that only counted when Harry was in competition with all those other kissers -- many nameless, some even faceless. Harry was _kissing_ him. He was kissing him. And it was the most sincere kiss Draco had ever received.  
  
Draco raised a hand to caress Harry's cheek, feeling his lips loosen into a genuine smile. Harry's eyes were wide, as well they might be. Draco was about to show him what it felt like to be _really_ kissed.  
  
There was something subtly wrong, however. Harry's smile, when it came, was more bemused than enthralled. Lines sank into the skin between his brows.   
  
Both of Harry's hands came up to pin Draco's face between them and to draw him forward so that their foreheads bumped. "Onions," he whispered fiercely.  
  
"What?" said Draco, befuddled by the dry skin of Harry's palms and the intensity of his gaze. He vaguely recalled shreds of their earlier conversation, and wondered how Harry -- who was surely more affected than him by all this touching -- could.  
  
"I love them," said Harry. He stroked Draco's hair once more, and turned his head to kiss the pale web of skin between Draco's finger and thumb.  
  
Draco free-fell into wind-rushing, stomach-turning terror as the pieces clicked into place. A moment later, the sharp, digging pains wracked him. He thought he'd grown used to the feeling of having his skin turned inside out. It turned out he was wrong.  
  
He was vaguely aware of Harry's thin arms pressing his flailing limbs to the bedsheets, of the rib of pyjama cloth stuffed into his mouth to still his screams.   
  
As if from the end of a long tunnel, Harry spoke. His voice, so calm and even, was at odds with the expression on his face as he hung over Draco. Draco, for his part, stared up at Harry with unmitigated fear, unable to move an eyelash.   
  
"I didn't think that Polyjuice caused pain on changing back," remarked Harry, for all the world as if they were at a Potions symposium.  
  
"You -- you --"  
  
"I took it once," continued Harry, as if Draco had not spoken. "It stung like the blazes when I drank it, but turning back into myself hurt about as much as a sneeze."  
  
"It -- it depends," stuttered Draco. "On repeated use -- when your mind is dis -- distracted --"  
  
"Ah. I see." Harry's hands on his upper arms were getting heavier by the minute, but Draco didn't like to mention it for fear he'd call in the artillery. "Of course, I doubt that extensive studies have been carried out into the after-effects. Given that it's illegal and everything. Where'd you get it? Knockturn Alley?"  
  
Dumb with surprise at not being dead yet, Draco could only nod.  
  
"I take it you have some more on you?" Draco managed another nod, his head flopping like a sack of wet cement. "Good. I'd hate to think how you could slip out of here without it. You know the windows are an illusion?"  
  
"Wait." Aside from a little tremble, Draco's voice was remarkably steady. "Did I hear you right? You're going to let me go?"  
  
Good grief, was that a _smile_ quirking the corners of Harry's kiss-reddened lips?   
  
"I thought we already ascertained that you couldn't stay forever."  
  
"But -- but -- you realise who I am?"  
  
"I've lost my magic, not my eyesight," said Harry.   
  
"Why don't you want me dead?"  
  
"Well, I wish I could say something noble, like how I've grown past the idea that an eye for an eye solves anything." Harry slid his hands down to Draco's fingers, lacing his own between them. "But frankly I didn't have the time to do that, being asleep for almost a decade and everything. I still get angry enough to wish people dead. I wake up every morning having dreamt that Snape was in reach of my wand. I get the best night's sleep when I've spent every dreaming moment torturing him."  
  
Carefully, Harry lay on top of Draco. Still frozen with uncertainty, Draco didn't even tense when their clasped hands were flattened, so that they were pressed together like folded paper dolls. His mouth was full of Harry's hair, a more effective gag than many Draco had encountered. His nose was blocked with the smell of soap and the lingering scent of vomit. Harry's lips moved across the angle of his jaw, speaking right into his ear.   
  
"I'm so sapped of magical energy that getting dressed on my own takes an hour. I can't get an erection. I can't keep down anything but dry toast and unsweetened porridge, so apart from everything else I'm in danger of developing scurvy. Not one single spell can improve my health, never mind give me back what I've lost. It started out bad, but it's been getting worse and worse. Everyone I know has grown up without me. And then there's you."  
  
"Me," repeated Draco, feeling that some response was called for. "I saved your life, did I?"  
  
"Hardly," snorted Harry. "I was dying from the day I turned Voldemort's wand on himself. What with all the … excitement, shall we call it, that you engender with every visit, I'm fading even faster. But … you remember when you first arrived?"  
  
"Everything was white," recalled Draco. He felt a start run through the body so closely apposed to his own.  
  
"Good answer. You can live in a white world, or you can live in one with purple sheets … but not both."  
  
"So my choice of bed linen is preventing you from turning me in?" Draco finally found his voice. "Your grasp of the law is sketchy, to say the least."  
  
"I gave them _everything_ ," hissed Harry. "I didn't even want to! It's their own fault if I take something from them in return."  
  
"I'm your petty revenge?"  
  
"Fitting, don't you think?"   
  
" _Very_ apt," agreed Draco. He flexed his fingers beneath Harry's. "What else do you desire? What form of abasement is to be my payment for my life?"  
  
Harry slipped off him. Draco felt curiously bereft, for all that he could now breathe freely once more. "I've already extracted it."  
  
"You have?" Draco pursed his lips. Crushing him a bit was hardly the most degrading of punishments. Then again, who knew what that meant to a Gryffindor, and a hero to boot?  
  
Harry smiled, a sweet unfurling that stopped Draco's breath midway to his lungs. Harry reached out and placed his finger against Draco's cheek -- against the far finer and lighter stubble, and paler-than-pale skin.   
  
Draco sucked in a gasp of air, swelling his cheeks against Harry's finger. Harry's smile deepened.  
  
 _My God_ , Draco thought dazedly, _the boy is_ good.  
  
"But I don't even like onions," he whispered.  
  
Harry shrugged -- a lopsided movement when seen on the horizontal plane. "You'll adjust." A minute pause, during which Harry's fingers tentatively splayed across Draco's face, feeling for every dip and pock. "I did."  
  
Draco breathed in. Harry's fingers stiffened. Draco breathed out. And pressed them to his cheek.


	17. Chapter 17

Draco had never understood the phrase 'walking on air' until he'd flown on a broom for the first time. Then, he thought that mere walking was nothing to swooping, zooming and tumbling. Now, as his whole being felt buoyant enough to float and a soppy smile refused to succumb to gravity and fall from his face, Draco felt nearly confident enough to try his luck from the top of the nearest multi-storey building.  
  
He was entirely unprepared to have his arm savagely grabbed and his body slammed against the brickwork of a derelict house.  
  
"What?" he managed. Something hot and wet trickled from his nose. Following the drops as they fell to his shoes, he realised they were red. He was bleeding?  
  
"You," snarled a familiar voice, steeped in rage, "owe me an explanation."  
  
"Blaise?" mouthed Draco. He got a mouthful of cement chips for his trouble.   
  
The hands on his back were abruptly released. Draco turned around, his hand automatically going to his nose to assess the damage. The pain of touching it made him nearly pass out, by which marker he guessed that it was broken.  
  
Blaise was standing in front of him, arms crossed over what Draco realised with a sinking heart were non-descript, dark Muggle clothes on which blood would not easily show up. Two heavies flanked him. They could have been Vincent or Gregory's six-foot first cousins.   
  
"I do not appreciate being lied to," said Blaise. His rage seemed to have passed. In school he'd been known as the Whirlwind for that very reason. "I pay these two here gentlemen to appreciate it even less. Now, you either tell me the _real_ facts about Harry Potter, or I will forthwith unleash their ... _appreciation_."  
  
"What more do you want?" Draco tried to raise his hackles, but he felt like a kitten among pit-bulls. If Blaise was demanding the 'real' facts, then he must have gained enough of his own to realise that Draco's were the fake ones.  
  
"I _want_ …" Blaise moved into Draco's personal space, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand to attention. "… the truth. And another night."  
  
"You can have as many nights as you like, but that isn't going to change what I've told you," said Draco.  
  
Blaise casually backhanded him, with such force that Draco fell to one knee. Blaise kicked it and Draco crumpled into a ball. He tasted his own blood -- not for the first time, but he'd never really become accustomed to the taste.  
  
"Why?" he wheezed. It was over as soon as Blaise hit him. Anyone in Slytherin knew that the only way to force information through violence was when you knew what information you wanted, regardless of whether the informant knew it or not.   
  
Blaise crouched down beside him, pitching his voice low. _So he doesn't trust the lackeys_ , thought Draco, clueless as to how he could turn this to his advantage.  
  
"I'm a private investigator," he said.  
  
"Some investigator." Draco spat out some pink-tinged saliva. "You don't even know who's hiring you. Hermione Granger never wanted to find me."  
  
"You think I care who hires me or not?" snapped Blaise. "Your sorry arse isn't worth the effort, if you want my opinion. Granger's name is on your file, but it could have been her sweet old grandmamma who was really heading the investigation for all I care."  
  
"Ah," sighed Draco. "Yes. Thank you for that, Blaise."  
  
His expression disconcerted, Blaise said, "You know a girl called Rosaline?"  
  
"I did." _Oh dear_.  
  
"Well, now I do too." Blaise smirked. "You're a good fuck, Draco, I'll give you that. All the practice must have come in handy. But don't you know there's ways of tracking your sexual partners through your semen? Very handy trick, that one. I found only a few people of real use, mind you, although I did pay a visit to a pair of very pretty Spanish boys. Set them straight about a few things."  
  
"Not much straight about those two," whispered Draco.  
  
Blaise whistled, apparently much diverted. "You can say that again. Couldn't believe they were brothers, in fact, the things they were doing to each other when I tracked 'em down."  
  
Draco frowned, but he wasn't yet stupid enough to interrupt Blaise in mid-flow.   
  
"I had to trek all the way to Egypt to find anyone valuable -- and him with a new baby. Shame on you, Draco." Blaise paced back and forth. "He was such a Muggle, wasn't he? Completely aghast at the news that you weren't _normal_. And he proved very reluctant to share any interesting information with me. Still." Blaise squatted down in front of Draco. "I know Muggles. I'm sure he had life insurance."  
  
"Had?" managed Draco. A queer buzzing noise had set up home in his ears, vainly attempting to eclipse his thoughts.  
  
Blaise tossed something on to the ground next to Draco's nose. It was the colour of a grisly rainbow and severely mangled, but the fingernail and the shattered remains of a large amethyst ring told Draco everything he didn't want to know.  
  
"Then, the genetic scans turned up one of our very own Aurors. Fancy that! Gives a whole new meaning to 'sleeping with the enemy.' But between me and you --" Blaise leaned in right next to Draco's ear "-- I was surprised to see Harry Potter wasn't on the list."  
  
Perhaps it was because Blaise's mouth was defiling the place where Harry had last set his lips. Perhaps it was the poorly couched insult in Blaise's words. Perhaps it was pure rage at Blaise's unilateral destruction of the fragile threads of Draco's life. Perhaps it was something even more visceral. Whatever the reason, Draco's voice dragged up a raw cry from the primeval swamps of his brain and let fly his fist. It connected with Blaise's jaw to a most satisfying crunch.  
  
Blaise rocked back on his heels. His eyes narrowed. "Foolish, Draco, very foolish."  
  
Cradling his throbbing hand to his chest, Draco couldn't decide if he was referring to Draco's amateur boxing or falling in love with Harry Potter.  
  
"What do you want with him?" he said. "You couldn't possibly be a Death Eater, Blaise. You're too canny to take sides. In anything. Not even chess."  
  
"There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy." Blaise sneered. "On one side, Harry Potter and his band of do-gooder angels. On the other, you and your elitist, exclusionist aristocrats. Can't you see it's not meant to work like that?"  
  
"It doesn't," said Draco, "or hadn't you noticed? Britain is a nation of shop-keepers."  
  
"Don't taunt me, Draco, you're in no position to reap any rewards," returned Blaise. "I'm sick and tired of creeping and crawling, of hiding who I am from the world. I'm a _wizard_ , damn it. So are you. So, for all their intellectual deficiencies, are those two goons behind us. The world is ours for the taking, and what do we do? Hide in pockets of their society, closed behind spells that Muggles can't see. We could rule them and we protect them instead. Tell me why that's right?"  
  
"No one said anything about right," said Draco. "The Muggles outnumber us, millions to one. Or don't you remember your History of Magic? The witch-hunts nearly wiped us out. They were the reason we had to intermarry, the reason the blood is no longer pure, the reason we have Squibs and Neville Longbottom. Do you have any idea how powerful the Muggles _are_? They don't just have swords and bonfires now. Nuclear weapons, Blaise. Satellites. Bombs. All it would take is the flick of one switch, and that would be it for magic. Forever."  
  
But Blaise had begun shaking his head almost before Draco spoke the first word. "No. Forward planning. We are in contact with every major ruler of the Muggle world. All we need to do is kidnap them and get them to sign some kind of agreement. Muggles love their bits of paper."  
  
 _Not as much as you might like to imagine_ , Draco thought, but it no longer concerned him because Blaise was mad. Totally and utterly insane, in a way that didn't show on the outside and hence was more dangerous than any other kind. "I don't understand what this has to do with Harry Potter. Why were you pumping me for information about him when it’s the Muggle politicians you need?"  
  
"What is Harry Potter?"  
  
Draco gave Blaise as dry a look as he could manage, given that his eye was rapidly swelling shut. "A _man_ ," he said slowly, in case Blaise had accelerated past the Visual Recognition point on the Insanity Horizon.  
  
"An _icon_ ," corrected Blaise. "A hero. A saviour. In short, the most influential wizard alive today."  
  
"Ah," said Draco weakly. "A pawn."  
  
"Exactly." Blaise brought his hands together in delight. "And you fed me a pack of lies about him. At least, that's what Rosaline's information would suggest, and given that I slipped Veritaserum into her wine before I boned her I'd say the balance is in her favour. Plus, fat birds bruise easy."  
  
"Poor Rosaline," said Draco, feeling truly sorry for her. After all, if he hadn't used her first perhaps she wouldn't have so easily fallen for Blaise's blandishments -- and Draco wouldn't be in his current position.  
  
"She enjoyed herself, I made sure of that." Blaise drew on a pair of gloves that glinted silver at the knuckles. "As I intend to. The Muggles have got it right about one thing."  
  
"What?" whispered Draco.  
  
Blaise sank his fist into Draco's belly. "This."  
  
  
:: ::  
  
  
Draco staggered into the lobby trailing blood and dirt, only to find the elevators weren't working. Feeling a sob rise up to choke him, he dragged himself up the stairs. Each one was perfect torture, better than anything Blaise could have devised.   
  
Usually when Draco suffered for his wages, he could immediately spell away the damage. When forewarned about his patron's proclivities, he tended to cast a few localised numbing charms. Blaise had one up on him there. He'd broken Draco's wand with the second punch.  
  
Draco's head was buzzing from having been smashed into the pavement once too often. It felt only nominally attached to his body. The suite was in darkness when he finally pushed the door open, only to fold up on the floor.   
  
He was in an ideal position to watch the sky blush pink through the casement window. He could no more have moved than he could sing an aria. He decided to start small: his hair hurt. No, his scalp -- most of his hair had come out in the flunkies' enthusiasm.  
  
It was there that Stefano found him a few hours later, when he emerged yawning, his hair tousled and his boxers creased.   
  
"Jesus Christ," he swore, and dropped to his knees beside Draco. That was the last thing Draco saw for a while.  
  
When he came to, he still ached all over. But he was sheathed in deliciously cool sheets and his fingers no longer bent at angles that had made him throw up twice on the way home.  
  
Alexandre and Stefano appeared at the door as soon as he opened his eyes and came to flank the bed like dark-haired book-ends.   
  
"Hello," said Draco. It was spectacularly inadequate, even by his standards.  
  
"I thought you'd like to see this," said Stefano. He held out a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ , bent over so that only the huge headlines were visible. A moan escaped Draco's lips as he saw Harry's name splashed in the print over and over, along with words like 'coma,' 'magical illness' and 'drained of magic.'  
  
"The warrant is also out for your arrest, _Draco_ ," said Alexandre. "For collusion with Death Eaters, accessory to a homicide, criminal impersonation, and use of illegal potions, among others."  
  
Draco pressed his hand to his head, surprised to find it wrapped in nubbly fabric. "Is there a reward?"  
  
The brothers exchanged a puzzled look. "No, why?" asked Stefano.  
  
"Thought it'd be nice for you to get something out of your association with me." Draco shrugged and sunk against the pillows, unable to meet their eyes.  
  
"Oh, we got something all right." Alexandre's voice was grim, but the brown hand that reached down for Draco's was not. "You betrayed my brother --"  
  
"Cheated on me, over and over," chimed in Stefano, "broke my heart."  
  
"Acted like an all-around bastard," Alexandre picked up the theme.  
  
"It hasn't been this good since Dad was alive." Stefano grinned and took Draco's other hand.   
  
"Anyway, that Blaise fellow has taken the wind out of my sails," said Alexandre. "He's done everything to you that I wanted to, and then some."  
  
"You've been punished enough, is what my brother is trying to say," said Stefano.  
  
Draco thought of the line that cut Harry Potter's lower lip in two. "Have to agree there," he said.  
  
"So that's why we're going to help you," said Alexandre.  
  
Draco had suffered so many shocks in the past twenty-four hours that he merely rolled his eyes at this. "Oh, yeah?"  
  
"He took some talking around," said Stefano, cheerfully. "But I reminded him of that thing you do with your tongue and the --"  
  
"Anyway," Alexandre broke in, "we're going to get you away before the Aurors arrive."  
  
"And in return?" Draco looked from one set of arched brows to another. "I'm assuming there's a codicil."  
  
"Well, there is one small tiny thing …" began Stefano.   
  
"Harry Potter," said Alexandre. His eyes, when Draco met them, were a hurricane storm cloud to Draco's murky sky.  
  
"I can guarantee you that whatever else Harry Potter is, small and tiny are not it," joked Draco. This rejoinder clearly amused no one but himself, for Stefano looked confused and Alexandre mutinous.  
  
"You've been interviewing him," said Alexandre, demonstrating his monumental gift for pointing out the obvious. "And I know you weren't responsible for these scurrilous lies." He shook the newspaper.  
  
"I'm heartened that you think so well of me," drawled Draco.  
  
Alexandre snorted. "Don't be. The only reason I know that is because you're far too concerned with saving your own skin to do something so wholly self-destructive. Whoever wrote this knew that more people than just Harry Potter were going to be tarnished by it."  
  
Draco took another look at the paper. Unless Rosaline or one of the other Aurors had squealed, there was only one person who could possibly be responsible for revealing this depth of information. Blaise. Draco was quite certain that if the Aurors didn't haul him off, Blaise would come back for seconds -- and this time, he'd finish the meal.  
  
"So what do you propose to do about it?" asked Draco. "As you can see, I'm a few hours shy of being a convicted criminal, and probably a few months short of being a dead one. Besides which, all of this is true. Potter has lost his magic, and I did visit him under false pretences."  
  
"Yes, about that," said Stefano. "If you'd wanted my hair, all you had to do was _ask_. We could have done far more kinky things with your illegal potion than stalk washed-up celebrities."  
  
"Please." Alexandre held up his hand. "I don't even want to consider what you mean by that. As for your question, A -- Draco, have you ever heard the saying 'there's two sides to every story?'"  
  
"Certainly," said Draco. "In this case, there's the side where Harry Potter lost his magic whilst battling a dread magical dictator, and there's the side where he robbed the world of the greatest leader it had ever known and lost his magic in just punishment for same. I can't say I entirely subscribe to that one, but they've already covered the other angle."  
  
"You spent two weeks with the man." Alexandre thumped the paper for emphasis. "Surely you found out more about him than that."  
  
"I suppose," said Draco slowly. Probably there were people amongst the _Prophet'_ s readership who would be intrigued to discover that Harry Potter's hair was as soft as frayed wool, or that he got terrible bags under his eyes when he hadn't slept well. "But I can't see what this has to do with you."  
  
Alexandre exchanged glances with Stefano. "Let's just say we have our reasons," said Alexandre. His voice sounded odd, almost choked.   
  
"Far be it from me to deny you that, if it's to be the price for my freedom." Draco shrugged. "Mind you, I did expect something a little more drastic. Involving handcuffs and whips, perhaps."  
  
Alexandre sucked in an affronted breath. Stefano looked struck. Draco smirked, a little of the old oomph returning.  
  
"Very well," said Alexandre, after a brief pause during which he adjusted the front of his jeans. Stefano didn't seem to notice this, so taken was he with Draco's off-hand suggestion. "You promise to write another version of this story? The one that shows the real Harry Potter, whether he's good, bad or indifferent, and contradicts this one. To show the world who Harry Potter truly is."  
  
"I promise to write the true version of this story," Draco promised. Carefully.  
  
"Good." Alexandre's brow cleared. "I was going to make you do an Unbreakable Vow --"  
  
"Good grief, that's rather extreme," murmured Draco. Alexandre ignored him.  
  
"-- but Stefano trusted you to hold to your promise, so I will too. Reluctantly. But I will."  
  
"You are as gracious as ever." Draco inclined his head, making sure to let the sheet slip down to pool just this side of decency around his hips.  
  
Alexandre flushed and addressed his next remarks to the ceiling. "I'll get packing. Take care of the anti-tracking spells and such. So you two can say goodbye properly."  
  
"No fear," said Stefano, with a broad grin.   
  
Alexandre coughed and exited the room rather hastily. Draco watched his tight bottom leave with something close to regret.  
  
"Hey, you." Unnoticed, Stefano had shucked off his t-shirt and slipped into bed next to Draco. He aligned his body alongside Draco's. "I should probably hate you for everything, but I think we can save all that till later." He began to stroke Draco's belly in lazy circles.   
  
"Hmm," said Draco. "I totally agree."  
  
"I've decided to take up the place at Hogwarts, too," said Stefano. His hand rubbed a little lower. "Who knows, some extra magic might come in handy. Like if I ever want to hunt you down for revenge sex."  
  
"Hmm," said Draco, a little more pointedly this time. With the tiny part of his brain that was still rational, he resolved to guard against such an eventuality with all the magical skill he possessed.  
  
Stefano's hand dipped down to cup the warm weight in Draco's boxers. Draco parted his legs and pulled Stefano between them, enjoying his pretty mouth for the last time.  
  
As Stefano rasped his knuckles against the flesh of Draco's thighs, Draco spared a thought for Alexandre. Perhaps he'd have time to wish him farewell, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy' is paraphrased from Hamlet; 'England is a nation of shop-keepers' has been attributed to Napoleon. Again, I wrote it as though Blaise and Draco were themselves quoting the lines, but I make no pretence of ownership.


	18. Epilogue

I am forty-two years old today.  
  
Given that I know I'm going to die three weeks shy of my eight-fourth birthday, this year is something of a half-way house. It reminds me of the turning of the seasons on the twenty-first days of December and June -- of knowing that the year is either getting colder or warmer from hereon in. I'm told that I should expect this to be the winter of my life, but for some reason I feel like I'm living in a perpetual summer solstice.   
  
I've already survived all the hideous things I predicted for myself. The death of my wife at the hands of one of Zabini's Breakthrough lynch mobs. Losing my eldest son to that same party of delusional rebels, from his warped sense of duty. The decline of my mother after finding my father in bed with another two women. She coped -- even someone without my abilities could have foreseen that -- but she was not spared months of embittering grief.  
  
I feel that my role in the world at large has played itself out. Seers do not just happen upon the earth by chance. We are drawn to the troubled times of history. Or perhaps the troubled times are heralded by us; perhaps we even usher them in. Little wonder that we are as equally reviled as we are respected, or that people often thought they could stop the tide of evil events with our blood.  
  
I trust that I do not need to regale my paltry audience with events of the last twenty-odd years. I am not quite old enough to have outlived anyone who suffered through them by my side. It will be some time before people can look back on them with objective indifference; I cannot predict if they ever will. Like I said, my powers have much diminished, starting with the day Blaise Zabini -- the self-styled Leader General of the Breakthrough Party -- died.   
  
Let us simply state the obvious: Zabini was a madman who was lucid enough to sway too many others to his cause. No one knows what it is like to fight a war on two fronts until one is standing between the powerful bigot who wants to control your people, and the Muggles one has to protect from him. I cannot count how many people returned home from patching up the scenes of a roust between Zabini's Breakers and an innocent, confused group of Muggles, to find their own homes destroyed by another battalion of the same men.  
  
I was not the only one who despaired of ever toppling this loathsome dictator. Not one of the hundreds of plans we put into operation against him came to fruition. He was just too good for us. But not, it transpired, better than his killer.  
  
We know little about her. Only two other people were in the same building as Blaise Zabini and Gytha Holt on the day she assassinated him. They did not see her arrive. They did not see her leave. In fact, they didn't discover his body for hours.   
  
Some say she was trained by an Auror, but I doubt that. Those Aurors that Blaise did not rally or coerce to his side he slaughtered without mercy. Unless she chooses to come forward with her story, I think she will forever remain a mystery. Speaking as someone who saw what she did to Blaise -- both before and after he was dead -- I rather hope that she will not.  
  
Under duress, I once did try to get a read of Gytha Holt. It drained me for days, and all I was left with was an image of a chubby, gurgling baby. It had a perfect heart-shaped bruise on its forehead. I maintain to this day that it is simply one of the things we are not supposed to know. I can tell you, though, that the name Gytha means 'war.' I do not think that is a coincidence.  
  
As for my own history, well, that is less well-documented. My mother was a passing wily woman. She soon recovered from the shock of finding that her son was a Seer and moved to protect me from the inevitable backlash. She used her own considerable powers of persuasion and that of her influential friends to force the entire corps of Aurors and employees of the Department of Mysteries into signing a secrecy agreement about my powers. It might even have worked, had not my visions started manifesting themselves in ever more violent and public forms as I grew older.   
  
People do not like to be told the time, place and manner of their deaths. I discovered this on my first day at Hogwarts, with my head flushed down a toilet. I learned -- with difficulty, but I learned -- to be extremely circumspect about the information I revealed. The girls with shining eyes and hair who wanted to know if the class Lothario had ever noticed them -- did I have the right to tell them of the evil that lurked in their futures, of those who would suffer at their hands, at the losses they would themselves endure? I didn't think so, even without the mental influence of the friendly neighbourhood bullies.   
  
When I was a child, the visions came thick and fast. All I had to do was concentrate, just to the level another child would use to read a picture book or colour a painting, and there they were. They flocked to me, swarmed around my brain, chattered in my ears till I threw pillows at nothing in order to sleep. From studies conducted on and by me, and my own personal opinion, I think that this is due to the natural openness to new experiences that all children display. Little girls and boys dream of princesses in tiaras, dashing sword-fights, vanquishing dragons and having enough money to buy all the ice-cream in the world. As we grow up we realise how ludicrous these ambitions are, so we shut ourselves off from them -- usually, forever.   
  
I was no different. Talking to beings from another astral plane, and hearing their tales of fantastical places that I later realised were the past, simply did not happen -- so, after a time, these spirits left me be. I still regret that.  
  
By the time I was twenty I had to consciously put myself into a trance to evoke the visions. I travelled all over the world, learning esoteric practices from shamans and witch-doctors in remote corners of vanishing rainforests and expanding deserts. I drank so many poisons that I stained my fingernails and the whites of my eyes black, and all of my hair fell out. It grew back as dark as my eyebrows, interspersed with odd tufts of blonde, like the coat of a piebald badger.   
  
I cannot say whether or not the concoctions worked. Increasingly, the visions arrived when they would and stayed for however long they chose. I no longer had any control over them. For their part, they were far less interested in my personal fate than I was. I was thirty-two when I had the last vision pertaining to myself. It was disappointingly trite, revealing only that I was due to get a bout of diarrhoea from the guava fruit juice with which I was currently enamoured.  
  
Naturally, I made a comfortable living peddling fortunes to those too stupid to realise how little they wanted to hear them. It surprised most people to be told they were guaranteed to dislike the news about their future, even when it was good.   
  
I still don't know how any of it works. I told one man he was going to be killed by a dragon on a trip to Romania; he cancelled the trip and lives on today, doing a steady business in magical fertiliser. I warned Charlie Weasley that his next broom ride would be fatal. He laughed it off, saying that he'd had every possible safety spell installed on his state-of-the-art Lightening Strike. Perhaps he had, but the manufacturers had not been so vigilant. Not even wizards can survive fifty-feet drops on to concrete from brooms that go to pieces in mid-air.  
  
So, it would appear that free will is alive and well. Perhaps what I see are the important branches in life. Not every decision you make is going to significantly affect the course of your existence. A scant few, on the other hand, make history. _Your_ history.   
  
What if Voldemort had not been abandoned in an orphanage? What if Snape had not killed Dumbledore? What if Harry had recovered his magic? On a more hackneyed note, what if my mother had not married my father but instead wed the love of her life, Ron Weasley? I certainly got glimpses of all those futures _in potentia_. (I had red hair.) I cannot claim with any authority if they happened 'somewhere else' or not. All I know is that they did not happen here. Or if you like, think of it this way: even if your vision is twenty-twenty, you cannot see what is happening behind you -- unless you turn around.  
  
Blaise Zabini wanted me to tell him a number of things. When would he die, and how? I think he hoped to circumvent this occurrence by killing the man whose hand turned against him. He also wanted me to predict his enemies' movements, reveal choice information about their whereabouts and help him outwit them at every turn.  
  
My wife was the price I paid for my refusal.  
  
I still wonder, sometimes, if Blaise wasn't right on some particulars. I often resent concealing my true nature when I walk down Oxford Street. Once or twice I've been taken to a Muggle hospital in the midst of a prophetic seizure and have had to pretend I have epilepsy. Yet -- I don't think any magical coup is worth the bones of one Diagon Alley street-sweeper. That is where Blaise and I had a difference of opinion.  
  
Besides which, it is I walking down Oxford Street, not the other way around. Those Muggles who -- through their association with Muggleborn wizards -- have been inducted into the secret of our world, have never sought to infiltrate it. Granted, their motives were not wholly pure. None of their compatriots would believe cock and bull stories about a school for witchcraft, flying brooms and wands that turned water into wine. To their credit, however, none of them have ever so much as tried.  
  
I believe Muggles call a neighbour-against-neighbour war a 'civil' one. The term is rather a misnomer.   
  
There is nothing particularly civil about being interrogated by your own son, having him demand in words frothed with spittle why you refuse to bow to the will of his great leader. Blaise, although fond of physical contact himself, never allowed his sergeants to indulge. I once thought it was from a tiny, residual sense of honour. Now I realise he knew how very much crueller it was to simply see your own blood turned against you. He had plenty of hot-headed adolescents among his ranks -- each and every one brainwashed into supporting the justice of his 'cause,' not one of whom would have hesitated to point their wands at their own kin should Blaise have asked it of them.  
  
Equally, I would not call it civil to have a man die at his brother's hands.   
  
Stefano Aribas was in training to be an Auror when Blaise came to power. He defected rather than bow to Blaise's rule, and joined the Resistance. I met him several years later when I myself joined. One thing led to another after I asked him about his curiously familiar appearance. (I, as you may imagine, never forget a face.)   
  
Draco Malfoy may have been one of the very first victims of Blaise's reign of terror, but he was not the last. When Stefano discovered that his brother Alexandre was passing classified information from the Spanish Ministry of Magic to Blaise's Breakthrough cells in Spain, his grief was terrible. So was his revenge.   
  
As I understand it, there was more than mere brotherly affection bonding those two together. And more than fraternal discord killed them. After Stefano cursed his brother so that his heart would explode in his chest, he remained to watch him die. At the last moment, he kissed Alexandre goodbye -- and died from the Deadly Nightshade that coated his lips. They died in each other's arms. Perhaps they would have wanted it that way.  
  
Unlike many of my more optimistic friends, I never thought that the trouble would end with Blaise's death. But I am glad he is dead. Now, perhaps, for a short while, we can heal. Until it is time to fight again.  
  
However, my cynical diatribe was not the reason I sought to examine my role in these troubled times. Blaise's plan to use Harry Potter as a pawn fell through with Harry's disappearance. As a result, Blaise retreated for a time to lick his wounds, only to re-surface more fanatical than ever the month after I finished school. By then, he didn't need any pseudo-hero to hide behind. In the years that followed, the world all but forgot the strange and absurdly tragic existence of Harry Potter.  
  
I did not. It was not my lot to do so, when every now and again I caught glimpses of him in my dreams. Before anyone jumps to conclusions: no. I don't know where he is. I never did. I know all the theories, all the suppositions, all the wild hopes. That is why I refuse to content myself with anything but fact.  
  
The first fact: Harry was never comfortable with his notoriety. Having experienced a little of it myself, I completely concur with his dismissal of fame. Besides which, even my seven-year-old self could see that Harry was not the paragon the world desired him to be. He was cranky when he woke up, he swore when he stubbed his toe, he was given to sulks and fits of temper that would have shamed a two-year-old. He was no less a good man for these faults, but the world did not want a good man. It wanted a perfect one.  
  
The second fact: Harry knew all along that Draco Malfoy was masquerading as a Spanish reporter. How? Because I told him. I told him the very first day.  
  
At the time Harry wasn't aware of the extent of my powers -- neither was I, come to that. But I knew enough to warn him when the researchers were coming over to prod and poke him, so that he could pretend to be asleep. I anticipated his thirsts and hungers before he felt them, and knew what to fetch to sate them before he asked. He may have thought me astute, but little more than that. More important was the fact that, by the time Michel Rodriguez appeared on the scene, Harry trusted my judgement implicitly.  
  
Not long before Harry left for good, he was told by the Aurors and magical researchers that excess amounts of magic were toxic to Muggles. What he wasn't told was that his extended stay in a highly magical environment -- St Mungo's -- had drastically lowered his immune defences. It explained why he was so weak and ill all the time he was awake.   
  
While the researchers couldn't begin to address the problem of filling the emptied stocks of Harry's magic, they were intelligent enough to locate the cause of his poor resistance. As a result, Harry's room was stripped bare of all the basic magic that is inherent in wizard buildings, as well as the wards and warning devices added later. The Aurors were cautioned to cast spells only when absolutely necessary and to keep visitors to a minimum to aid them in this. In any other room in the hospital so well guarded by Dark Wizard captors, Draco's thin disguise would have been penetrated in seconds. I later interviewed some who claimed acquaintance with him; all claimed such shoddy planning was characteristic of Draco and was mainly due to his overblown confidence.  
  
Of course, I didn't know this at the time. I found out later, from my mother, who had her finger in countless pies. I don't know if Harry was ever told but, somehow, I doubt it.  
  
The third fact: I was the one who engaged Blaise Zabini to locate Draco Malfoy and tell him of Harry's awakening, in the hopes of fetching him back to England. I did so in my mother's name, after picking Zabini's enterprise out of the Lemon Pages. I little thought that Blaise would be such a powerfully negative influence on all our lives. All I knew was that picking him was what I was going to do well before I did it. I also knew that Harry would need Malfoy. What for, I am still not sure.  
  
When I first saw the man who introduced himself as Michel, I was heartily puzzled as to why the man beside him was being so totally ignored. He was blonde and slight, his pointed face as different from Michel's swarthy handsomeness as it was possible to be. When I next got Harry alone, I asked him why he'd refused to speak to the blonde man.   
  
I won't detail the tedious exchanges that led to Harry's identification of my 'ghost' as Draco Malfoy, nor the subterfuges necessary for me to liberate a wand and, following Harry's instructions, run tests that would ascertain if Michel Rodriguez was who he claimed he was.   
  
He wasn't.  
  
That is where the realm of fact ends and the kingdom of fantasy begins. I didn't know Draco Malfoy from Adam. Taunting him with my knowledge amused me, but I possessed a seven-year-old's view of why Harry concealed Draco's true identity -- in other words, I had no idea. There was no doubt that they struck up a curious friendship. There was no doubt, either, that seeing his secrets and apparent 'deception' by Draco Malfoy spread all over the _Daily Prophet_ hurt Harry more than he was ever likely to show.   
  
Was Harry simply tired of his life as a research subject and object of pity?   
  
His bank vault, later found to be cleared of every Knut, had contained enough money to allow him to live the life of several kings even when converted into Muggle currency. Hair dye, contact lenses, clothes, aeroplane tickets, even plastic surgery; these are easy to obtain when you have limitless funds. Harry had the cash and wherewithal to stay hidden for the rest of his life, and that's pretty much what he did.  
  
Did Harry's closest friends, Ginny Wood, Ron Weasley and my mother, miss him?   
  
Of course they did, terribly so. Just as they'd mourned for him eight years before when he was as good as dead to them. His awakening was a miracle -- a reprieve for which they'd long since learned to cease hoping. Given time, they would have adjusted to having him back from the living dead. Then again, when that time was taken from them, it was easy enough to pretend it had never been. For eight years they'd learned to live without him. Ginny had lost a lover; Ron and my mother, a mediator and friend. They'd done their grieving and their coping. Eight years was good practice for the next forty. We can all vouch for that.  
  
Did Harry die?  
  
That one's easy enough. If Harry made sure to stay well away from anything magical, he would remain reasonably healthy. The question of whether he could bear to do that is far more difficult to answer.  
  
Did Draco really betray Harry?  
  
It depends on what the questioner means by 'betrayal.' When you are seventeen and your world is falling down around you, when your parents are in mortal danger and you are the only one who can save them -- what price betrayal then? Draco hardly knew Harry when he hated him. In two weeks in a hospital ward, he got to know him better than almost anyone. He could still have betrayed him, but why would he have waited to send his story to press? To complete his devastation of Harry's heart? Or because he didn't do it?  
  
Every written word is open to interpretation. That's why I'll tuck in here a little something that has been in my possession these last thirty-eight years. There was no signature and no magical read on the letter when it was delivered to me during the Christmas of my first year at Hogwarts. I'm not inclined to discover the identity of the sender. Either way, this is what it said. Make of it what you will.  
  
 _Who is Harry Potter?  
  
He is a hero, say some. Others would declare him a blood-traitor and despise him for destroying wizarding kind's last chance of redemption. Few members of the latter group are still in a position to speak their views. Those acting in Harry Potter's name made sure of that.   
  
I don't think he's a hero. I never did, not from the first moment I met him. I saw him as an advantage, a mark to be gained. Later, I saw him as a closed door -- a representative of the biggest failure of my life to date.  
  
My opinion of his hero-status has not faltered, even as I came to damn well like the man. Heroes are, in their ideal state, dead. Harry Potter is very much alive. He is inclined to be tempestuous, to argue with those who think they know better than him (or even actually do), to question authority and generally act like a complete fool. He has flashes of insight and flashes of idiocy in equal measures. He has never been in love, yet he knows how to love better than anyone I know.   
  
I have spent two weeks with Harry Potter. In that time I went from despising him as an attention seeker, to feeling pity for his miserable state, to ending my judgement of him forever because he was my friend.   
  
If I'd ever been a truthful man, I'd have sent this article to a newspaper. After all, I ferreted my way into Harry Potter's good graces by posing as a journalist. In the end, however, I discovered that I wanted to divulge details of this man about as much as I'd like to have my sexual prowess rated on the front page of the_ Daily Prophet _. I knew so much about Harry Potter by the end of two weeks that I couldn't even begin to list all of it. Perhaps I still could have done so if it were not for one thing -- one very important thing.  
  
And it is: everything I learned about Harry Potter ended up tying him to me. Where he ends and I begin is impossible to tell. Not only good memories and happy ones, but every crabbed and unworthy thought he thinks could just as easily have been thought by me. As I have no wish to reveal myself so conclusively for public consumption, I could not possibly do the same to Harry Potter.  
  
Perhaps I loved him for those two weeks. Perhaps I only fooled myself. Perhaps I was revealed to myself in my entirety and was so consumed by it that I confused those feelings with any I had for Harry Potter.   
  
I think he loved me, a little.   
  
Heroes cannot love that way, though. I am not a virginal maiden, nor even a man worthy of any honest emotion. I don't wish for it. I never cared for responsibility. I would never have wished loving Harry Potter on my worst enemy.  
  
Then again, my worst enemy was Harry Potter.  
  
If Rita Skeeter were here now, I'd have one thing to tell her, and one thing only.  
  
Harry Potter wears red boxers. _  
  
Did Harry run to Draco when he left, or away from him?   
  
A lot of people would like to think that Harry wreaked dreadful revenge upon Draco for his multiple crimes. Certainly he was never heard from again either. I'm the only one who dares imagine that there was more between those two than that. Constantly in their company, witness to their interactions, and not blinded by years of partisanship and conflicting hopes, I saw what no one else did. People think that they would always welcome love and close the door to hate. But when you can't tell one from the other -- when you're all alone -- can you be sure who or what you'd let walk beside you?   
  
I could find out. The spirits are still there, and they're a garrulous lot -- gossipy to the core. I have enough potent dream-herbs and mystical wines to smooth the way to half a dozen astral planes.   
  
However, I know better than most how little I wish to see. Watching my wife be Crucio'd to death not once, but twice, did not help me prepare for it. The vision only let me live in dread of the event from the day I knew it would happen.   
  
Yet, and yet, my imagination runs riot as often as it did when I was ten. Perhaps ...  
  
Perhaps my vision would allow me to see two heads: one light, one dark -- both, I daresay, a little speckled by grey -- bent together. Jaunty Caribbean music plays in the background; fresh breezes blow in off the turquoise ocean. Waitresses in grass skirts serve drinks the colour of tropical fish. Draco and Harry use two straws in one glass. Harry allows Draco to stick the cocktail umbrella in his unruly curls, tucked behind the arm of his glasses. In return, he dabs the salt of the tequila from the corner of Draco's mouth with his thumb.  
  
A nice image, is it not?   
  
But is it _true_?  
  
That's for you to decide.  
  



End file.
